


Four Turns

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Comedy, Drama, Erotica, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Incest, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room, Threesome, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-06
Updated: 2006-07-05
Packaged: 2018-10-27 15:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10811340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Ginny, Fred, George, Hermione and Harry all want to shag Ron.  They strike a deal.





	1. Prologue - Shove a What Down His Throat?

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Thanks to Thevina and Brumeux, who beta-ed this monster and gave wise and much-needed advice.    


* * *

“ARE YOU DAFT!” Harry screamed.  He couldn’t help himself.  Panic was rising like bile in his throat, about to choke him.  “Quit blubbering and GO GET HELP!” 

“Help, yes,” sputtered Slughorn.  The Potions Master scurried out of the room, the fat on his back and buttocks quivering and bouncing in a way that made Harry think of Dudley.

Slughorn gone, Harry turned back to look at Ron.  The redhead lay on his back, arms and legs flung wild, all at awkward angles.  His head was tipped back, mouth open to accommodate the bezoar.  He looked uncomfortable.  _Oh Ron_ , Harry thought.  He straightened out his friend’s arms and was about to wipe the froth from his lips, when his own heart seized painfully.  _I can’t lose you too, not on top of Sirius._   With a sudden sob, he snatched up as much of Ron’s lanky form as he could hold.  There, on the floor of Slughorn’s office, he held his friend tightly, biting back a howl of despair.  _I can’t lose you, Ron,_ he thought.  _I can’t, I can’t, I just can’t_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hours later, on the hospital wing, sitting at Ron’s bedside with Hermione, Ginny, Fred and George, Harry was drained, too exhausted to think clearly.  He had gone rather quickly through all those stages they talk about, denial, anger, and so on, to arrive at acceptance…acceptance of how he felt about Ron, had felt for a long time.  He hadn’t really intended to enlighten the others, but when George said something about it being lucky that he thought of a bezoar, he found himself blurting out, “I’d like to shove something else down his throat!”

There was a small silence, then Hermione said, “Me, too.”

“Me too,” echoed George.

“Yep,” agreed Fred, nodding.

“Well, don’t leave me out,” growled Ginny.

Harry looked around at all his friends, expecting to see that they had misunderstood, or were joking, but they were all looking at Ron.  Hermione’s eyes (and he suspected his own) had a raw hunger in them…Ginny and the twins, well, they just looked raunchy.  

“You’re having me on,” said Harry.  He looked from face to face.  “Are we talking about the same thing?”

“If we’re talking about this,” said Fred, miming rather explicitly.

“You’re winding me up,” said Harry.  It was too much to believe.

The other four passed looks among each other, Fred’s right eyebrow going up and Ginny hiding a smirk.  Hermione blew her nose and shrugged.

“Honestly?” Harry said.  “We all want to shag Ron?”

Fred nodded.  “Honestly,” he said.

“Honestly,” confirmed George.  “Shag him senseless.”  Hermione and Ginny nodded.

“Okay,” said Harry.  He turned back to look at the pale redhead on the bed.  “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully, “We all want to shag Ron…so how do we work out such a thing?  I mean, nothing against a group thing, but if we all rushed him at once, we’d probably scare him.  What if we just took turns?”  He looked back at his mates.  To his surprise, they were nodding.  “Really?  Take turns?”  

More nods.

“Okay, then.  Erm, Hermione, I think you should go first.”

“Fine by me,” said Hermione.  Her voice was hoarse, thick with phlegm. “But how am I supposed to get him out from under Lavender?”

“Don’t worry about that, Herm,” said Ginny.  “Just sit back and wait for Lav to bollocks things up herself…Ron likes you tons better…”

“It’s just as well that Lavender got to him first,” Harry said.  “First times,” he shuddered, remembering his first kiss, “can be horrid…Lav will have loosened Ron up a bit, Hermione…it’ll be better for you if he’s had some experience.”

“Oh, he’s had experience,” George grinned wickedly.

“Yeah,” said Fred.  “We’ve”—he laughed, exchanged a wink with his twin—“well, you could say _we’ve_ loosened him up a bit.”

“Good then,” said Harry.  “He won’t be too shocked when I make my move.”

“Harry,” said George.  The twin cocked his head at Harry, trying to look innocent. “Feel free to pop over while you’re waiting your turn with Ronniekins…we’ll keep you occupied.”  


”Sure,” said Fred.  “And we’d make the same offer to you, Hermione, except that we’re a little afraid of you.”

“Thanks,” said Hermione, wryly.  “One Weasley is enough trouble.”

Ginny broke in.  “Harry can’t just pop over to see you,” she said, frowning at the twins.  “He can’t just leave Hogwarts…you should have seen the guard he had escorting him to school.  Harry,” she said, rounding on the black-haired boy, “Come see me.  I know what Ron likes.”

“You do?” said Fred, looking with interest at his younger sister.

“Sure,” said Ginny, irritably.  “I get curious, just like anyone else.  I Obliviated him afterwards.  Lots of times, actually.”

“Erm,” said George.  “We never Obliviated him, exactly…we, erm, just drove him out of his bleeding mind…carried him to bed afterwards.  We always figured he thought he was having some mad dreams.”  He turned to his sister.  “So, little Ginny, shoplifting the pooty…at least that explains the bite marks…here we were, blaming Percy for those.”

“Well, Percy _is_ a biter,” said Fred.

“I’m first,” Harry heard Hermione mutter.  “I better study up.”  She waved her wand and _The Magical Girl’s Guide to Enchanting Sex_ appeared in her hands.  She reached for one of the chocolate frogs on Ron’s bedside table, unwrapped it slowly, her eyes glued to the well-thumbed pages.

Harry drifted over to the bed and looked down at Ron.  After a moment of hesitation, he put his hand out and stroked the tousled red hair away from Ron’s forehead.  He idly listened to Ginny and the twins continue their conversation—“Well, you guys could use a brush-up on your cleaning spells,”—Ginny was saying.  Harry grinned.  A go or two with Ginny wouldn’t be so bad, Ginny was great, he’d always liked her.  He’d bet his Invisibility Cloak she was a top.  He laid the back of his hand against Ron’s warm cheek, a sense of peace and contentment stealing over him.  Hermione could be first, he thought, and the others could take their turns in whatever order they wanted, though he supposed Fred and George would go as a team.   He didn’t really care who Ron’s first, second, third or fourth lover was…as long as he, Harry, was his last.  He leaned forward and kissed his friend’s forehead.  

Ron murmured and moved his head on the pillow.  His mouth fell open and he began to snore.

The dormitory doors suddenly banged open, making everyone jump.  It was only Hagrid, wet, muddy and striding into the infirmary with a cross-bow like he intended to put someone out of their misery.  Harry grinned.  Then not caring in the least if his giant friend saw, Harry leaned to kiss Ron’s forehead again.  “Get your sleep while you can, ” he whispered to his sleeping friend.  “You’re gonna need it.”


	2. Turn One - Miss Ginny, a Bone to Pick

_Yes, yes, this is Ginny’s chapter, but before we go any further, I feel I must introduce myself.  I am one of those creatures known as an Intrusive Narrator.  I grew up organically during the development of this piece and while the author did try to exorcise me, by the time she had finished the piece I had a rather tenacious hold.  You can expect to hear from me from time to time when I have something to say—the kind of thing that in a character’s mouth would just be clumsy exposition.  You may well find me annoying or a bit too twee, but remember that I am an accepted literary convention with a great deal of history behind me.  I have as much right as anyone to be here, and you may well yet grow fond of me._

_So our Ginny…_

When Mr. and Mrs. Weasley returned from Dumbledore’s office, Harry, Hermione and Hagrid decided to leave the infirmary in order to give the family time alone with Ron.  As the door closed behind them and Hagrid’s heavy footsteps died away, Ginny motioned with her head to Fred and George.  The twins looked at each other and shrugged.  They followed their sister to a quiet corner of the infirmary.

 

Ginny had her arms crossed and her foot tapping.  “Here’s what I want to know,” she said angrily to her brothers.  “Who made Harry boss?  Since when do we have to queue up to shag Ron?  And where does he get off telling Hermione to go first?”

 

“Ginny, Ginny” started George, “What does it matter—“

 

“You don’t understand,” Ginny interrupted.  “Hermione’s first!  That’s going to take forever.  First she’ll wait for Ron and Lav to break up—that could be months!  Then she’ll wait for Ron to make a move on her!  You know how chicken Ron is!  He might not make his move for years!”

 

“She’s right, George,” said Fred.  “Ron’s been on the fence about Hermione for years.  Who knows how long he’ll dither?”

 

“And Hermione’s just as bad!” said Ginny stomping her foot.  “If it were up to those two to repopulate the world, we’d be in trouble!”

 

“I don’t see the problem,” said George calmly.  “In the first place, Ginny, I know you are perfectly capable, with your wand or without it, of pushing Ron and Hermione into a situation where they’ll simply have to shag—or be disgraced forever.  And, have a little faith, Gin.  Ron might bite faster than you think.  Remember, he’s experienced now…he’s been studying under Professor Lavender, who I must say is one of Hogwarts’ finest…”

 

“One of Hogwarts’ absolute finest,” agreed Fred.  “Though,” he added thoughtfully, “Oliver Wood might give the girl a run for her money.”

 

“You don’t get it!” said Ginny hotly.  The twins exchanged an alarmed look when they saw her bottom lip wobble.  “Do you really think that once Hermione’s got Ron, she’s just going to let him go?  Harry, the dumbarse, might think she’s really going to give him a turn, but I know better!”  Her face was now pink and her voice rising.

 

“Ginny, a little quieter, please,” said Fred, glancing over at his parents who were bent over Ron’s bed.

 

“Sorry,” said Ginny.  She dashed her hands across her eyes, which were suddenly wet and sparkling.  “Its just that I just almost lost a brother,” she said hotly.  “And I could bloody well lose a lot of brothers before it’s all over.”

 

“Ginny—”

 

“Shut up, George!” said Ginny furiously.  She wiped her nose on her sleeve.  “I’m not finished!”

 

“Okay, Gin.”  George held up his hands.  “Sorry.”  

 

Ginny glared at her brothers.  “You two have seen Mum’s clock, haven’t you?  Mortal Danger, every one of us!  There’s a war on, idiots.  Anyone of us could go at any minute.  That’s why I’m not waiting.  As soon as Mum and Dad leave, I’m taking a turn!”

 

“Hey, hold on there, Gin,” said Fred in alarm.  He glanced over at Ron’s bed.  “You need to wait a little while at least.  Erm, Ron’s still unconscious…”

 

“Oh, like that matters,” said Ginny dismissively.  She scrubbed at her eyes and wiped her nose again.  “I can do him unconscious…it won’t be any different, he’s always in some kind of altered state when we shag…”  

 

“Ginny, are you all right?” asked George, looking concerned.

 

“Of course, I’m all right,” snapped Ginny.  “Save your mollycoddling for someone else.”  She glowered, red-eyed, at her brothers.

 

“Okaaay,” said George, shooting Fred an eyebrow-up glance.  “I must say, Gin, you’re certainly turning out to be a very interesting little sister.  Tell you what, first let’s have a drink,” he produced a flask from somewhere in his robes.  “Let’s drink to our beloved brother, Ron…and to Harry, for pulling the stupid little git from the jaws of death.”  He passed around the flask, everyone taking a sip and saying “to Ron and Harry.”  “Now,” George went on, putting the flask back in his robes, “let’s talk.  I’ll draw up some chairs.”  He lifted his wand and summoned three nearby chairs, which shot over to the siblings’ corner to form a little semi-circle.  “Okay, Ginny,” he said as he sat, leaning forward eagerly, elbows on his knees. “Tell us more about Ron’s ‘altered states’.”

 

Ginny sat down in her chair heavily.  “Oh you know Ron,” she sighed.  “He wants to do it…we get halfway there and he freezes.  I just help him along a little.”

 

“And how do you help him, Ginny?” Fred asked.  He too, leaned forward. “I rather like this,” he said to George.

 

“It _is_ deliciously twisted…” admitted George grinning

 

Ginny rolled her eyes.  “Oh, like you two are so innocent.  I know that if Ron has shagged you, he was under the influence of something.  I don’t know what you did to him…but I know you’d have to do something…”

 

“We never said Ron’s shagged us,” said George.

 

“We have, however,” Fred said, “had some lovely intimate moments with dear little brother.  He’s an excellent choice when we want to play Three Musketeers.  But Gin, what makes you think Ron would have to be under the influence before he’d climb into bed with his devastatingly attractive brothers?”

 

“Because he’s just like Percy!” Ginny exclaimed.  “The same damn warped sense of honor!  Why he—” suddenly she giggled.  “You should see him,” she said.  “…we’ll be going at it hot and heavy and he’ll suddenly remember it’s me.  His head snaps up and his eyes practically roll in panic.  He starts babbling about how we can’t do this, and he goes scrambling backwards with a hard-on this long,” she held up her hands about two feet apart. (“Exaggerating,” George said to Fred; Fred nodded solemnly.)  

 

“We’d been practice snogging for years,” Ginny went on, “but our first real time was out at the pond.  At a rather, shall we say, critical moment he tried to run and I hit him with an Immobilus…the expression on his face, it was priceless.  I couldn’t tell though if he were overjoyed or horrified…that’s why I Obliviated him afterward…”

 

“Ah,” said Fred knowingly.  “And thus was born a beautiful relationship, based on honesty and mutual trust.”  When Ginny only snorted, he went on, “Tell us about more about the, uh, altered states, Gin.”

 

“Oh, just the usual,” said Ginny.  “Entrancing Enchantment, Disorientation hexes, the Confundus, the Incarcerous…”

 

“Ooh, Fred, she’s kinky,” said George.

 

Ginny went on as if her brother hadn’t spoken.  “There’s Petrificus Totalis, of course, but you’ve got to time it just right…he’s got to be hard already and then in a proper position.  Otherwise, it’s a no go.  Anyway, those are my stand-bys.  What about you?”

 

“What about us?  What do you mean, Gin?” asked George.  He looked at Fred as if he had no clue.

 

“I mean, I know he wouldn’t just shag you lot either.  So how do you manage it?”

 

“Not telling,” said Fred.

 

“We’re sexy,” said George.

 

“Fine, said Ginny. “Don’t tell.  You two are always like that.  Won’t share your secrets with anyone else.

 

“Ginny,” Fred said, suddenly serious.  “If you were curious, you could have come to us.  We would have played along and you wouldn’t have had to Obliviate us.  Why Ron?”

 

“Oh, please,” said Ginny dismissively.  “Like I’m dumb enough to trust you two.  Do you really think there’s anyone left in Gryffindor Tower who doesn’t know about the tattoo?”

 

“What tattoo?” asked George, looking out the infirmary window as though there were something really interesting out there.  Fred hummed and gazed at the ceiling.

 

“The tattoo that appears on your bum,” said Ginny.  “The one that says ‘I shagged Fred and George.’  Really, it’s a joke in the girls’ bath.  When you see a girl showering with her pants on you just say, ‘oh, and how are the twins?’”

 

“Blimey,” said George.  “It was only supposed to last an hour.”

 

“Yeah,” said Fred, intrigued.  “How long before it fades?”

 

“I really don’t know,” said Ginny. “Going on gossip, I’d say anyway from two days to a week.”

 

“Ah, well,” said George.  “It must differ from person to person, then.  We always use ourselves as prototypes, you know, and it only lasted an hour with us.  But any way, Ginny, let’s get back to this thing about queuing up to shag Ron.”

 

“Yeah,” said Ginny, “that’s really got me fussed.  Who does Harry Potter think he is?”  She drew a little zigzag Z on her forehead and said in a deep voice, “‘Hermione, I think you should go first.’  Honestly!”

 

“Look, Ginny,” said Fred.  “I think you’re getting worked up about nothing.  George and I don’t think it’s any of Harry’s business what Weasleys do to other Weasleys in private, right?  Why don’t you give Ron a few days to recover, then do whatever is it you’re itching to do…I know we will.  Then, Gin,” Fred went on, looking suddenly serious. “I think you made a promise to Harry.”

 

“Yeah,” said George, “you promised to teach him a thing or two…”

 

“Oh right,” said Ginny, “I did, didn’t I?  Well that won’t be so bad…I always did fancy Harry.  Plus it’ll give me a chance to pay him back for being so bossy.”

 

“But, Ginny,” Fred said, wagging his finger at his sister, “remember you’re dating Dean.  If shagging with Harry turns into more than a one-off, then you’re going to have to choose.  We like Dean and we don’t think you should cheat on him.”

 

“Right,” said George.  “Molesting your brother is one thing…cheating on your boyfriend is another.  It’s just plain wrong.”

 

“All right, all right,” said Ginny, rising to her feet.  “You lot are right…about everything.  I won’t queue up for Ron and if it looks like I’m going to like Harry more than Dean, I’ll break it off with Dean.  To tell you the truth, I think Dean and I are about done, anyway.  He’s just too damned, I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Gentlemanly.”  Ginny bent down and kissed both of her brothers on their crowns.  “Thanks guys,” she said before turning to walk back to Ron’s bedside.  “I hope I don’t get a tattoo on my backside for a kiss on the head,” the twins heard her mutter as she went.  

 

Fred frowned at George.  “I don’t think it works that way, do you?”

 

“Absolutely not,” said George.  “Think about all the times Mum’s kissed us…her backside would have been littered with tattoos…we’ve have been found out and killed.”

 

“True,” said Fred. “Hey, George…you don’t think we should have told Gin about the Ron Happy Juice?”

 

George shook his head.  “That’s _our_ secret, brother.  But I think we might play with the ingredients just a bit.  We don’t want Ron with a tattoo on his arse.”

 

_SMACK!_

_That was you, reader, running headlong into me.  Like a brick wall, huh?  Sorry, but we Intrusive Narrators are rarely subtle.  I have come to tell you there will be no encounter between Ginny and her closest brother.  That scene has been subcontracted and will be housed at a different site when finished.  You see this author (look at her, silly little woman slumped in front of the scene, still in pajamas and fighting the urge to pick at a piercing that hasn’t quite healed properly—would you believe she always puts on lipstick to write so she’ll look nice for the boys?).   Anyway, the author could happily watch any number of Weasley males at play—any coupling (or tripling), any position, any circumstance, yet she finds Ron/Ginny troublesome.  Really, we narrators have seen everything and find such squeamishness ridiculous—but our author seems to feel that brother/brother incest smacks of summer camp circle jerks and could pass for play while brother/sister incest is something darker, carrying with it some nasty whiffs of female subjugation.  At any rate, she chooses to turn away.  Put up her umbrella and shudder, like Snowman Burl Ives when the Bumble comes after poor Rudolph and Hermy.  Snort.  Tell her when it’s over…_


	3. Turn Two - Hermione, Flowering and Deflowering

Harry stumbled out of the Room of Requirement, a dazed and satisfied look on his face.  His legs were a bit wobbly (three times—he hadn’t thought he was up for the third go, but Ginny, now she was rather brilliant, had pulled him through).  His legs shook (aftereffect of the standing position, no doubt), but he thought he could make it up.  Up and up and up the endless flights of stairs to the Gryffindor Tower and dorm room he shared with Ron and Neville, Dean and Seamus.  Well, he had to…he’d promised Ron and Hermione he would.

 

He’d already told Dean and Seamus to stay away from the room for the afternoon.  “Ron and Hermione have some things to work out,” was all he’d said.  The two boys had cottoned on quickly.  Dean had been a proper gentleman.  He had nodded and elbowed Seamus hard when the young Irishman had blurted, “You’re going to guard the door, Harry?  Can’t Ron just hang his tie on the doorknob?”

 

“Look, Seamus,” Harry’d said, giving the boy a dark look.  “I don’t really know what Ron and Hermione need private time for, but Hermione’s definitely not the type to go for the school tie on the doorknob.”  

 

With Dean and Seamus gone, Harry had looked about for Neville.  The other boy had been nowhere to be found.  He was off in the greenhouses, Harry had supposed, so that was another reason to be guarding the door, not to mention that Ron and Hermione were Prefects and didn’t need McGonagall finding them out.  If anyone else showed up, Harry had decided to use the “garroting gas” line Ginny had suggested last year.  It had worked fine with students, if not with Umbridge.

 

Harry reached the dorm room and quietly pushed open the door.  Ron was there alone, pacing the short space between his bed and Harry’s.  He was running his fingers through his hair, messing it up and looking, Harry decided, utterly adorable.  Something twisted rather suddenly in Harry’s gut.  _Uh oh_ , he thought.  _This is going to be harder than I expected._   

 

_Then why’d you tell Hermione to go first, idiot?_ asked a small voice in his head.

 

_Because I wanted to be last,_ Harry told the voice.  _At the end of the day, I want it to be me and Ron, forever…_

 

_Do you really think Hermione is going to let you have him_? asked the voice.  That voice, it was either snotty or pitying.  Harry couldn’t decide.  _If he were yours,_ the voice went on _, would you give him up to Hermione?_

 

_No, I wouldn’t,_ Harry admitted _.  But that’s why Hermione’s first...she has way more honor than I do.  Besides I can’t shake this feeling that Ron and Hermione aren’t really meant to be together.  Somehow I just know it.  He’s supposed to be mine._

 

_Sure are you?_ The voice was almost lifting an eyebrow.

 

_Oh shut up,_ Harry told the voice.  He watched Ron pace another minute before calling out, “All right, mate?” 

 

“Yikes!” Ron squeaked, whirling.  “Harry!  You startled me.  Oh, blimey, Harry,” the redhead moaned and fell dramatically on his bed. “I feel like we’re getting ready to play Slytherin for the House Cup.  I’m about to wet myself and I’ve already puked once.”  Suddenly he leapt from the bed and approached Harry. “How’s my breath?”

 

Harry rolled his eyes.  “Ron,” he said, putting his hand reassuringly on his friend’s shoulder.  “You and your bloody nerves.  You doubt yourself too much.  And your breath is fine so stop breathing on me.  Come on, mate,” he squeezed Ron’s tense shoulder, “it’s going to be fine…”

 

“Argh!” Ron threw off his hand and started pacing again.  

 

Harry watched his friend for a moment, bemused.  “What’s got your knickers in such a twist, Ron?” he asked.  “It’s not like you haven’t done this before…about a thousand times…with Lav…”

 

Ron stopped and spun back to face Harry.  “That’s just it, Harry.  That was Lav—this is Hermione!  It’s different…and, and, and…Hermione has such rigid standards!  What if I’m not up to snuff?  She’ll give me _marks_ , Harry, and homework!”  The redhead waved his hands in agitation. “She’ll give me a planner, for crying out loud, that says things like ‘a gentleman in bed will never ask for head…’”

 

“Relax, Ron,” said Harry, laughing.  “You’ll do fine…”

 

“You don’t understand, Harry,” Ron burst out, “you’ve never had a chance with someone you’ve barely dared to dream about—”

 

Harry winced.  He felt like he’d been slapped.  He found himself wanting to smack his friend.

 

Oblivious, Ron went on.  ”I could screw this up so horribly she might never speak to me again.”

 

_I hope you do_ , thought Harry furiously.  His face was hot and a bitter taste filled his mouth.  _I hope you screw this up so thoroughly that Hermione spreads the word and you never get laid again._   A second later he was ashamed at himself.  Ron and Hermione were his friends, and he’d made a deal…

 

_Maybe Ron doesn’t want you the way you want him,_ said the voice in his head.  Harry decided it was definitely a snotty voice.  _Maybe he’ll want to stay with Hermione forever._

 

Harry closed his eyes. _That’s the chance I have to take, isn’t it,_ he thought _…it’s the chance we all take when we fall in love…that the one we love will hurt us, won’t love us as much as we love them.  And_ , he took a deep breath, _if it happens, I’ll survive.  I’ve been through worse._

 

_Have you really?_ the voice asked, gentle this time.

 

Harry took a moment to wrestle his emotion back under control.  “Look, mate,” he said with effort to Ron.  “You’re not going to screw up and if you do screw up, it’s no big deal.  This is Hermione and you’re not going for some sodding house championship.  You should really be thinking about Hermione, not yourself, you great arse.  Hermione’s new at this, she’ll be just as nervous and scared as you.  Think about what you can do to make it nice for her.  Make sure she really wants to do whatever she’s doing and if she says stop, stop.  And for heaven’s sake, be careful.  She’s a small person.  You don’t want to hurt her.”

 

“I could hurt her?” Ron looked horrified.  “Lavender never said anything about that…”

 

“That’s because Lavender is way more experienced than Hermione, you idiot,” said Harry. “Lavender knows how to relax and Hermione’s, well she’s a bit high strung…she might go all tense on you.  Just be gentle, okay?—and quit chewing your fingernails…honestly, Ron, do you want a calming draught?”

 

“Do you have one?” Ron looked relieved, but then his face changed.  “That wouldn’t affect my performance, would it?”

 

“ _Nerves_ will affect your performance,” said Harry.  Suddenly, there was a timid knock on the door.  Harry threw Ron a reassuring look, then opened the door.  Hermione scuttled in, clutching a large book and looking just as panicky as Ron.  She smiled weakly then turned to close the door and seal it with a Colloportus.

 

“Hermione,” said Harry gently.  “You’re going to have to let me out first.”

 

“Oh,” said Hermione, turning pink.  “Well, _Alohomora_ , then…”  The door clicked open.  “Thanks, Harry…for everything…” ****

 

Harry left before she could say anything else.  He closed the door behind him, and leaned against it, not knowing whether he was going to throw up or scream.

 

* * * *

 

Harry had only been sitting in the hallway a little while before Neville showed up.  The smaller boy was clutching his _Mimbulus mimbletonia_.  

 

“What’s up, Harry?” Neville asked.  “Why are you sitting on the floor…wanna go in the room?”

 

“No,” Harry answered, glad of a little company.  “We can’t.  Fred and George sent Ron a package.  It had a tub of garroting gas in it that exploded.  I told Ron I’d keep people out of the room until the gas dissipates.”

 

“Oh, that’s nice of you,” said Neville.  He sat down on the floor next to Harry and stroked his plant.  It made its soft crooning noises.

 

“That thing’s grown quite a bit, Neville,” Harry commented, eyeing the plant.  “Is it just me or does it look less gray than it usually does?”

 

“I was just noticing that myself,” Neville said, looking with interest at his plant.  “It’s definitely turning a bit pink.  I don’t know why…it only does that when it’s aroused.”

 

“Aroused?” said Harry, not quite believing his ears.

 

“Right,” said Neville.  You see a _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ is hermaphroditic in nature…see its boils?  Some are male sexual organs and some are female sexual organs… if you look closely, you’ll see some of the boils are now elongating and becoming protuberant, those are the male organs.  The boils that are starting to look like little flowers are the female sex parts.”  The little plant grew pinker and it swayed a bit in its pot, crooning to itself.  Suddenly one of the elongated boils erupted with a jet of white liquid; it hit Harry right in the face, spattering all over his glasses and forehead.  

 

“Ugh,” he said, wiping his glasses on his robes. “It got me again…say, that stuff doesn’t smell like Stinksap!”

 

“Erm, it’s not,” said Neville. “It’s ejaculate.”

 

“Ejaculate,” Harry repeated, wiping his face with the back on his hand. Suddenly it dawned on him just what Neville was saying.  “Neville!” he exclaimed. “Are you saying your plant just came on my face?  Eww…”  He scrubbed his hands back and forth on his robes.

 

“I’m sorry,” said Neville, turning a deep shade of red.  “It doesn’t usually do this…I really don’t understand why it’s doing it now…unless it’s going through puberty or something.  I’m going to have to ask Professor Sprout.”

 

“You mean, it just comes, like out of the blue,” asked Harry, interested now that he’d gotten the plant’s spunk off his hands and face, “just because it’s going through puberty?” 

 

“No,” said Neville while the little plant swayed and sang to itself.  “That’s what I don’t understand.  Usually it has to be stimulated by something…like someone mating.” (Harry groaned).  “You see, Harry,” Neville went on, warming to his subject, “the _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ is not only hermaphroditic, it’s empathetic.  It’s very sensitive to its immediate surroundings…it can detect anger, joy, fear, but it really keys into sexual energy.  Why if I didn’t know better,” the boy looked up and down the hall, “I’d think someone was having sex nearby.”

 

“Boy, you really know your plants, Neville,” said Harry quickly.  “Hey look at that one.”  Harry pointed to a protuberant boil that had grown quite engorged.  He put a hand between it and his face, expecting another ejaculation.  Instead the boil quite suddenly began to diminish in size, until it hung flaccid from the main stalk of the plant.  The crooning turned into a whimper.  “What just happened?” he asked Neville, looking perplexed at the limp boil.  

 

Neville shrugged.  “I don’t get it,” he said.  “That would indicate that someone, someone male, was very turned on and then suddenly got turned off…but there’s no one here.”  He looked around again.

 

Harry pointed to one of the boils that had opened up into a little flower.  “What’s going on with these?”

 

“Off-hand,” said Neville, “I’d say the female parts are pleased and happy, but not overly aroused.”

 

“Oh,” said Harry, feeling pleased and at the same time uncharitable.  While Lavender had often hinted broadly that Ron was quite the lover, Harry had the feeling that perhaps things weren’t going as well with Hermione.  Maybe Hermione would decide she preferred Ron as a friend and he, Harry, would get his turn that much quicker.

 

Time passed.  Harry and Neville sat in the hallway, both staring intently at the _Mimbulus mimbletonia_.  It crooned, it swayed, its male parts rose and swelled, achieving orgasm five times.  The female parts trembled, flowered and retracted and after a long while, one of them grew quite shiny.  

 

“Look at this,” said Neville, touching one finger to the shiny boil.  Harry wanted to smack his hand away, he felt almost as if Neville were touching Hermione.  

 

Neville went on, “This one is quite aroused.”  Suddenly the shiny boil began to shudder and twitch, it curled in on itself then opened again violently, dropping a bit of silvery dew from its center.  “That was a female orgasm,” said Neville. 

_Finally_ , thought Harry.  

 

He and Neville sat awhile longer, watching as the plant returned to its normal gray color and the protuberances and flowers retuned to ugly boils.  “It’s in a post-coital stage now,” said Neville.  The plant crooned happily.  “Although,” Neville frowned, “it hasn’t really mated at all.  When you mate the _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ , you get two or more—since they’re rare, that’s quite a job…anyway you get two or more and set them next to each other.  They lean into one another and stick their protuberant boils each other’s flower boils.  You watch the plants and if insemination is successful, the flower boils will expel seedlings within a month or so…I’m no expert on sex, but I’d have to say this plant has been channeling someone else’s sexual experience.”

 

Suddenly the dorm room door flew open, hitting both boys in the backs.  They jumped to their feet as Hermione came out with her heavy book under her arm and closed the door quickly behind her.

 

“Oh,” she said, when she saw Neville.  Her cheeks turned pink and Neville’s turned scarlet.  Harry wondered if Hermione had any idea how tousled and tumbled her hair looked, how puffed her lips were.  “Hi, Neville,” said Hermione.

 

“Hi,” said Neville.  He couldn’t meet Hermione’s eyes. 

 

Hermione turned even pinker, but, Harry noted, she was flushed anyway.  _Post-coital_ _glow_ , he thought sourly.  

 

“Harry,” Hermione said, speaking rapidly and breathlessly.  “Thank you ever so much.  Ron and I were able to, erm, work things out.”  She turned to Neville. “We had a bit of a row.”  

 

Neville nodded, not looking up.  

 

“I have to go now,” Hermione went on.  “I have just loads of homework and some new research I need to do.”  She tucked her book more securely under her arm.  She glanced quickly again at Neville, who was staring fixedly at the floor.  “Harry, would you mind checking on Ron?  I wanted him to go to the library with me…but he just said something about being famished and sleepy.  I really do have to go.”  She suddenly leaned forward and kissed Harry’s cheek.  “Thank you, Harry, I mean it,” she said, beaming.  “Bye, Neville.”  Then she was gone, running lightly down the stairs.

 

Neville turned to Harry.  “Garroting gas?” 

 

“Sorry, Neville,” Harry said.  He put his hand on the other boy’s shoulder, more to hold himself up than anything else.  “I lied.”

 

“Oh, um, that’s all right, Harry, really I understand.”  Neville seemed more flustered than ever.  “I do…I think it’s noble of you to watch out for your friends…and really, this, erm experience has provided me with some new insights into the _Mimbulus mimbletonia_.  It’s been really interesting to watch it go through this process.  I’m going to find Professor Sprout right now.  Bye, Harry.”  Neville turned to go.

 

“Neville,” Harry called.  The other boy stopped on the stairs and looked back.  “Erm,” said Harry, “when you talk to Professor Sprout, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention any names.”

 

Neville turned pink and giggled.  “I won’t,” he said and hurried off.

 

Harry watched him go, then turned and opened the door to their room.  “Oy, Ron,” he called.

 

“Here.”  A sleepy voice came from Ron’s four-poster.  Harry walked around the bed.  The curtains were open and Ron was leaning back against the pillows propped on his headboard.  He had his comforter pulled up to his chest, but Harry could tell from his bare shoulders he hadn’t bothered to dress.  The redhead looked relaxed and almost boneless.  

 

“Hullo, Harry.”  To Harry’s surprise, Ron scooted over and patted the bed beside him.  “Sit down, why don’t cha?”

 

“All right,” said Harry.  He climbed gingerly onto Ron’s bed as though Ron were a sick person he didn’t want to disturb.  He sat on top of the comforter.  “Everything, erm, go, okay?”

 

Ron’s blue eyes turned to him and for a moment Harry was reminded of the vacant look he’d seen on Ron’s face when he was under the influence of Romilda Vane’s love potion.  “It was bril, Harry,” he said, sleepily.  “Just bril.  Nothing like shagging Lav…I mean that was pretty great, but this was, you know…wow.  Made me hungry though…I could eat my own pillow right now…and I might have t’…cos” he yawned hugely, “I’m too tired to get out of bed.”

 

_Big bloody surprise_ , thought Harry, _you just bloody came five bloody times_.  Aloud, he said, “I can help you out with that.”  He stared down at the floor and said in a commanding voice, “Kreacher!”

 

There was a pop and Harry’s old house-elf appeared, furiously twisting an ear with one hand and his dirty loincloth with the other.  “Master called?” he said nastily.  “Kreacher must do something for the Potter brat?”

 

“Yes, Kreacher, you must,” said Harry, ignoring Ron’s snort of laughter.  “You must fetch the Potter brat a plate of sandwiches and a jug of pumpkin juice.”

 

Kreacher stuck out his tongue and disappeared with another pop.

 

“He’s not going to poison us, is he?” asked Ron.  “I’d prefer not to go through that again.”

 

“He can’t,” said Harry.  “House-elf rules.  So, erm, brilliant, huh?”

 

“Yeah,” said Ron, dreamily.  He shifted a bit in the bed.  His bare arm brushed Harry’s.  “I mean, parts of it were awkward…she brought a damn book with her, if you can believe that.  We were lying on our backs and at one point she dropped the book on my nose.”  Ron laughed.  He yawned and stretched and when he had settled again, he was leaning ever so slightly against Harry.  “And her hair kept getting all over me.  It was kind of nice, but it tickled too and Hermione just said ‘bugger’ and did some kind of spell that twisted the hair up into a braid.  Do you mind me telling you this?”  The redhead sank down a little further in the bed, leaning even more against Harry.

 

“Erm, no,” said Harry, “not really.”  _Not while you’re leaning against me…and I guess it’s best I know anyway, for future reference._   “But do you think you ought to?  Kiss and tell and all that?”

 

“Maybe not,” said Ron, yawning again.  His eyelids fluttered.  Harry doubted the redhead would stay awake long enough for Kreacher to bring the sandwiches.  “Just one more thing, Harry.”

 

“What?”

 

“Hermione, well, she, um, wanted to stick something up my arse.  Well, her finger.  She read it out of that damned book of hers.”

 

“Oh,” said Harry, laughing.  Ginny had done that too and it was rather nice.  He wondered if she had the same book.  “How did you like it?”

 

“Like it?” mumbled Ron, his eyes closing.  “Didn’t let her.  Lost my woody the moment she put her hand back there.”  He sighed and his head fell against Harry’s arm.

 

“Oh,” Harry said again.  He looked down.  Ron’s eyes were closed, the fair lashes making a delicate shadow on his pale skin.  “You should try it someday, mate,” Harry said softly.  “I think you might like it.”

 

Kreacher arrived a few minutes later with the sandwiches and juice, but it was too late.  Ron was sound asleep, his head resting against Harry’s arm.  Harry motioned for Kreacher to leave the sandwiches on the bedside table and clear out.  The elf did so and vanished, his fingers held in a rude gesture behind his back.

 

How long Harry sat on Ron’s bed, he didn’t know.  The sun sank and sent a red glow into the room.  No one tried to come in.  Neville, Harry supposed, had been considerate enough to spread the rumors of garroting gas.  _I should get up_ , Harry told himself, but he couldn’t.  For one thing, he didn’t want to disturb Ron.  The redhead was sleeping peacefully.  He had turned away and his back pressed against Harry’s hip.  The cover had slipped exposing his pale, freckled back and the sharp buttons of his spine.  Anyway, Harry couldn’t bear to go.  Who knew how long he’d have to wait to have Ron nude and warm at his side again?  He’d seen Hermione’s face when she’d left the room.  She was positively glowing.   She might not ever give Ron up.  

 

_Told you so,_ said the voice sadly.

 

So the hours passed.  Harry sat beside his friend, watching the small movements of Ron’s body as he slept.  And he wondered at the human heart; he never knew it could be so versatile.  Look at his own—on one hand, absolutely full of love and brimming with hope…and on the other, simply breaking…

 

_Whoops._

_Sorry.  That was my foot._

_Didn’t mean to trip you as you hurried by, but since you’re here, I’d like to bring something to the table.  Ron and Hermione.  Again, up with the umbrella.  The author has also subcontracted that section and it will appear soon off site.  Our author (you know it really bothers me the way she always frowns at her screen; it’s given her a giant furrow between her brows that I doubt even Botox can fix).  Anyway, our author can visualize almost any canonical combination, Harry and Hermione, Hagrid and Grawp, Draco or Snape and anyone; or how about Ron in the back room of the Three Broomsticks, bouncing happily on Madam Rosmerta’s waterbed-like bosom?  But Ron and Hermione?  Again she finds the combination troubling.  In fact since HBP, she’s had her panties in such a wad that R/Hr has become her personal Bumble, the terrible bête noire.  Every now and then, she’ll pause, a potentially interesting R/Hr just a click away.  But then, silly creature, she scrolls on by._

_The real reason I stopped you has nothing to do with the author.  I’m sure you wonder, just as I did, if a_ Mimbulus mimbletonia _is an accurate barometer of sexual activity.  My own curiosity got the better of me and I wrote to Professor Sprout.  I explained the situation, without mentioning any names of course, and asked the good lady if the Mimble could be used to determine the number of male orgasm versus female orgasms.  I’d like to share her response with you._

_Dear Fellow Botanist:_

_Your friend was mistaken if he assumed the_ Mimbulus mimbletonia _could be used to determine what took place behind the door.  While it’s true that a_ Mimbulus mimbletonia _would pick up on the strong sexual energy emanating from the room, the number of male or female orgasms it achieved would not correlate to the number of male or female orgasms achieved inside the room.  If the parties outside the door had had two_ Mimbulus mimbletonia _(unlikely since they are very rare) the individual plants would have had individual responses to the sexual energy in the room.  While the plant you have described appeared to focus on its male orgasms, another_ Mimbulus mimbletonia _might have shown more activity from its female boils or equal male and female boil activity.  I can only assume that the plant you described was simply more attuned to the male partner in question; even so, the fact that this plant achieved five male orgasms does not mean the male behind the door achieved five as well.   Incidentally, if the parties outside the room **had** had two _ Mimbulus mimbletonia _, the plants would have been far more interested in copulating with each other than whatever was happening behind the door._

_Sincerely, Professor Pomona Sprout_

_May I suggest that Neville’s Mimble, like everyone else in these stories, simply wanted to shag Ron?_


	4. Turn Three - Fred and George, In Good Hands

Ron used the tail of his shirt to scrub his face.  He was dusty, sweaty and hot.  He’d been all day with the twins, helping them clean out the old Zonko’s Joke Shop.  Who would have thought the place would have gotten so dusty, so just plain filthy in the year it had been closed?  He stretched and groaned.  His back hurt too, from helping his brothers move boxes of their stock into the back room.  Not that he was complaining.  Being with Fred and George certainly beat staying at the Burrow and helping with last minute wedding plans.

 

George came in from the back, carrying what looked to be an old toilet seat.  He tweaked Ron’s bum as he passed.

 

“Oy! Hands off!  Hey, where’d you get that?”

 

“Hogwarts,” George answered.  “Nicked it out of the Prefect’s bathroom when Percy was Head Boy.  Remember?  He mounted a regular Inquisition looking for the bloody thing.  Anyhow, we’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”

 

“How’d you get into the Prefect’s bathroom without a password?” demanded Ron.  He watched as George used levitation and sticking spells to fasten the toilet seat above the front door.  

 

“Talent,” said George.

 

“Seriously.”

 

“Okay, secret, then.  And what’s it to you?  You’re not going back to school, are you?  Why do you need to know how to get around a password?  Planning to take a bath in the Slytherin dungeon?”

 

“We’ll probably be going back,” Ron said, casually, examining his dirty nails.  “And we might need to get around a password or two.  We’re going to be looking for, you know, stuff..”  He leaned against a bare wall, folding his arms over his chest.

 

“Stuff like what?” asked George, stepping back to see if the toilet seat was properly hung.

 

“Secret,” said Ron, smirking.  

 

“Fine,” said George.  “I’m really not that interested so long as Harry kicks You-Know-Who’s arse and the three of you come back alive.”

 

Ron felt deflated.  Just once he’d like to impress the twins.  For once he’d like to be more interesting than say, a toilet seat.  He studied the seat now and saw there was something written on its scuffed and grayed surface.  He moved closer to read it.  _The Chosen One’s Chair.  Harry Potter Sat Here._   “Does Harry know about this?”

 

“Nah, but he won’t mind.  Figure we’ll get him to autograph it when he gets here.”

 

“Oy, lads,” called Fred, sticking his head into the room.  “Any one up for lunch?” 

 

“Me,” said Ron, swiping his face on his shirt again. He couldn’t seem to stop sweating.

 

“Well, come on upstairs, then,” said Fred.  “We got something to show you up there, anyway.”

 

Ron blinked with surprise when George opened the door to the upstairs room, which the twins planned to turn into office space.  There were two big desks, pushed to one wall and in the center of the room was a pond—a murky green pond that looked like a smaller version of the one back at the Burrow.  “Bloody brilliant!” he exclaimed, turning to look at his brothers.

 

“Just a variation on the Portable Swamp,” said Fred.  “Whipped it up just like that.”  He snapped his fingers.  Pushing past Ron, he carried a picnic basket and a thick blanket to the water’s edge.  “Got some good grub in here,” he said.  “It’s supposed to feed all the little wedding helpers, but Mum’s made so bloody much, she’ll never miss a few pies and sandwiches.”  He spread the blanket on the floor and set the basket on it.

 

“Excellent,” said Ron, plopping down on the blanket and reaching for a sandwich.  He took a huge bite.  “So you were at the Burrow, then?”

 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Ron,” said Fred.  “It even puts me off.  I just popped over while you two were hanging the toilet seat.  Didja know Hermione’s already there?”

 

“Yeah?” Ron stuffed the second half of his sandwich in his mouth.  “Sh’ rask boot meh?”

  

“Of course she asked about you, Won-Won,” said Fred, passing Ron a goblet of pumpkin juice and winking at George.  “She asked when you were coming back and then she blushed like a Weasley.”

 

“What are you doing to that girl, Ron?” asked George.  “To put a smile on her face and the pink in her cheeks?”

 

“Nuthin,” mumbled Ron.  He wanted to keep his relationship with Hermione to himself.  Harry knew of course, but the twins?  In the first place, Ron didn’t want Fred and George imagining Hermione naked.  In the second, there was no telling what the twins might do with that kind of information.

 

“Nothing, he says, George,” said Fred, leaning back on his elbows.  He chewed his sandwich thoughtfully.  “Well, all right then, Ron, have some more juice.  You were sweating pretty hard down there.  Can’t have you getting all dehydrated.”

 

Ron looked suspiciously at Fred.  “What are you up to, Fred?  Since when are you worried about me?”  He tipped his goblet back and drained it.  “S’good, though,” he said, wiping his mouth.  “Got any more?”

 

“Got a jug here _just_ for you,” said Fred, grinning now at George as he passed Ron the jug.

 

Ron frowned.  “What are you two up to?”  He refilled his goblet—he was thirsty—and slurped it down.

 

“Nothing,” said George.  “We’re just proud of our pond.  We can’t wait for you to take a swim so you’ll admire us even more than you already do.”  He stood up and stripped off his clothes.  “I’m going in.  How about you, Fred?” 

 

“Righty-ho,” said Fred.  He stripped off too and waded in after George.  He turned to look back at Ron.  “Coming?”

 

“In a minute,” said Ron.  He took a bite of pie and slowly stripped off his shoes and socks.  He looked at the pond in the middle of the room.  A shaft of sun came in through a dirty window, throwing its light into the center of the pond.  He could see his brothers as they ducked under, slid over and around each other like otters.  Their bodies were white shadows under the dark water.

 

Their heads bobbed to the surface.  “Problem, Ron?” asked George, dog-paddling.

 

“Erm,” said Ron, frowning as his fingers worked clumsily at the buttons of his shirt.  “How do ya keep that thing from crashing through the ceiling?  It’s got to be really heavy.”  

 

“We’re wizards, silly,” said George.  “And we know some really, really good magic.  This pond’s not going anywhere until we tell it to.”

 

Ron wasn’t listening.  He was having trouble with his shirt.  “Slippery,” he muttered.  “Who buttered my buttons?”  Ignoring Fred and George’s snickers, he tried to pull the shirt over his head.  Somehow he got one arm stuck behind his back.  When he tried to free it, he fell over on his side.

 

“Having a little trouble there, Ronnie?” asked Fred, watching Ron wrestle with his shirt.  He waded out of the water to help.  “There you go.  Now let’s stand you up and get those trousers off.”

 

Ron got to his feet, giggling.  He stumbled and caught himself on Fred’s shoulder.  Fred laughed and helped Ron with his button and the zip.  He’d gotten the jeans about halfway down when Ron suddenly crumpled to the ground.  “Stand much, Ron?” Fred asked.

 

Ron only gave him a goofy grin.  Fred rolled his eyes and pulled off Ron’s jeans, one leg at a time.  “There you go, brother,” said Fred.  “You can do the pants yourself…reckon you can?”

 

“I’m good, I’m good,” said Ron, beaming up at him.  “My head’s a little muzzy.  Yeah, muzzy…got dehydrated, yeah, just like you said.  Beyond that, I feel good…really good.  Great in fact!”  He wiggled out of his y-fronts and lay on his back laughing helplessly at the ceiling.

 

“Up you go, ya nutter,” said Fred, hauling Ron to his feet.  He carefully helped his taller and weaving brother the few feet across the floor to the pond.  

 

“One question, Ron,” said George, as the other two reached him in the deeper waters.  “Are you in Happy Land?  Erm, you could float, Ron.  That might be easier.”

 

Ron obediently floated on his back.  “Yah,” he sighed.  “Happy Land.”

 

“He’s drunk, Fred,” commented George.  “How much did you put in?”

 

Fred shrugged.  “A bit,” he admitted.  

 

Ron righted himself in the water suddenly.  “Still thirsty,” he said.  “ _Accio_ juice.”  He held out his hand, and then looked bewildered when the juice didn’t come.

 

“That’s not going to work, Ron,” said George solemnly.

 

“Why not?”

 

“You don’t have your wand.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Ron sank under the water, blowing bubbles.  The twins followed him closely, swimming after him as he somersaulted under water and then, without surfacing, stroked off for the center of the pond.

 

“Think he’s all right?” asked Fred.

 

“I think he’s fine.  Let’s ask him.”

 

Ron popped to the surface, spitting a stream of water.

 

“Feel okay, Ron?” asked George.

 

Ron smiled widely.  “I feel great.”  He lunged for his brothers, wrapping his arms around their necks.  “I love you guys!” he exclaimed as Fred and George struggled to keep their heads above water.  “I really do.  Don’t tell you enough.  I love you, luuurve you both!”

 

Fred sputtered, swam out of the circle of Ron’s arms.  “If you love us, don’t bloody drown us!”

 

“Sorry,” said Ron giving Fred a tender look.

 

“All right, Ronniekins,” said George, taking Ron by the elbow and towing him back to chest deep water.  “Let’s get where we can stand, shall we?  ’Cos it’s time to play Three Musketeers.”

 

“Right, Three Musketeers.  Huh?  How do ya play that?”

 

George put his hands on Ron’s shoulders.  “It starts like this,” he said and gently pressed his lips to Ron’s.

 

Ron’s lips curved upward under George’s and he laughed as his brother’s tongue flicked out to touch his.  “S’nice,” he said, wrapping his arms around George’s neck and kissing back.

 

Fred swam up behind Ron and wrapped one arm around his waist.  With his free hand, he moved Ron’s wet hair aside and started kissing the back of his neck.

 

“Mmm, s’nice too, Fred,” sighed Ron.  He kissed George again and rubbed his cheek against his brother’s.  “Whisker burn.  Like it.”  He wriggled happily.  His chest was now plastered to George’s; Fred was warm and tight against his back.

 

“Guess what, Fred,” said George as he kissed down the side of Ron’s neck.

 

“Mmm, what?”

 

“Little brother has his legs wrapped around my waist.”

 

“Must be time, then,” said Fred, running his tongue around the rim of Ron’s ear.

 

“Time for what?” asked Ron, then added an “ahhh,” and let his head fall back as George sucked at the curve of his neck.

 

“Time to get out our Muskets…we’re the Three Musketeers, remember?”

 

Ron let of George and turned to kiss Fred.  “No idea what you’re talking about,” he murmured into his brother’s mouth.  But you sure taste good.”

 

“Sure I do,” said Fred.  He began walking slowly backward, guiding Ron to the ankle-deep water.  George followed, running his hands over Ron’s shoulders and the curves of his hips.

 

Fred pushed Ron back into George’s arms and then walked out of the pond.  Hearing Ron moan, he turned back to see George, with his arms around Ron from behind, playing with his nipples.  Ron looked contentedly dazed.  His cock was fully erect and swaying under its own weight.  Fred grinned and fetched the blanket from under the picnic basket, leaving a puddle of water on the hardwood floors.  He wrapped himself up in the blanket and then beckoned to his brothers.  Ron was still wobbly but beaming.  George steadied him and led him to Fred.  

 

Fred opened the blanket to fold George and Ron inside.

 

Happily wedged between his brothers, Ron turned first to one and then the other.  Fred and George laughed and kissed him.  Fred ran his hand down Ron’s back and grabbed two handfuls of buttock while George stroked Ron’s cock with light fingers.

 

Ron was panting by the time his brother guided him to the floor and stretched him out on the blanket.  “Why haven’t we ever done this before?” he gasped, tearing his mouth away from George’s.

 

“We have, silly,” said George, smiling over Ron’s head at Fred.  “Loads of times, you just don’t remember.”  

 

“We’ve done this before?” asked Ron.  He turned his head to kiss Fred.  George took the opportunity to lower his head and lick his younger brother’s nipples.  Ron moaned and arched his back.  “Am I any good?” he managed to ask.

 

“You’re brilliant, love,” said George, sucking the left nipple and teasing it with his tongue.

 

“Guh,” said Ron, arching again.  “How,” he gasped into Fred’s mouth, “could I forget something like this?”

 

“You’re funny that way, Ronnie,” answered Fred.  “Now come here.”  He turned Ron on to his side and began kissing him again.  Ron responded eagerly, pulling Fred in tighter.  George stroked his younger brother’s back and then began licking his way down Ron’s spine.

 

After biting gently at the curve of Ron’s back and making him moan into Fred’s mouth, George asked, “You boinking Hermione, Ron?”  He reached around and took Ron’s hard cock in his hand.

 

“Yah, Hermione,” sighed Ron, shuddering as George stroked his cock and Fred lightly bit his shoulder.  “She’s brilliant.  I think I love her.”

 

“Course you do, idiot,” said George, kissing and massaging the rounds of Ron’s arse.  “What about Harry?”

 

“Love him, too,” mumbled Ron into Fred’s hair as Fred licked at his throat.  “We’re gonna look for hor— mmm, horcruxes.”

 

“Good, Ronnie, I like roar clutches too.  Are you shagging Harry?”

 

“Yah,” said Ron.  “Oh, no.  He likes Ginny.” Ron squirmed and sighed as Fred plucked at his right nipple and nibbled his lower lip.  “But I love him anyway, love ’im more ’n anyone.”

 

“Well, why don’t you shag him, then, you nutbar?” George said, opening Ron’s arse cheeks.  “This is always little ticklish at first, Ron,” he warned his brother, “but you rather like it once you get used to it.”  He reached out with his tongue and flicked at Ron’s anus.  

 

Sure enough, Ron jumped in Fred’s arms and clenched his cheeks.  But Fred grabbed his head, kissing him hard with open mouth and darting tongue.  George laughed with his face in Ron’s bum and waited for Ron to relax.  In a moment, he opened his brother again and ran his tongue in light circles over the sensitive flesh.  Ron tightened his grip on Fred, moaning and pushing himself back against George.

 

Ron was beyond coherent talk now.  He could only make mewling noises as George licked him and Fred kissed him, pulling almost too hard on his nipples.  His cock was hard and leaking and he felt a tightness gathering behind his balls.

 

“Stop, Fred,” commanded George.  “He’s about to go off and I’m not even touching his willie.”

 

“You have that effect on me too, love,” murmured Fred.  He left off with his kissing and teasing and rolled Ron onto his back.

 

Ron panted up at the ceiling.  His eyes were glazed and the lids fluttered.  “Crikey,” he moaned.  “You two are the best.”

 

“We know,” said Fred modestly.

 

“Open your eyes, Ron,” said George.  “We’re not done.  Look here.  Fred’s got something to show you.  Show him your gerbil, Freddie.”

 

“Right,” said Fred.  He rolled to one side and reached for his wand.  “Watch closely, Ron,” he said.  With that he flicked the wand, muttered some words and his right hand instantly transformed into a small rodent with beady eyes, small claws and a long tail.

 

“What’s that?” asked Ron, blinking out of his sex stupor and drawing back in alarm.

 

“It’s a gerbil, silly,” said Fred.  The gerbil put its paws to its mouth; its nose twitched and its tail whipped.

 

“Oh, I thought it was a rat,” said Ron, shuddering. 

 

“Actually it’s neither gerbil nor a rat.  It’s my hand.  And I just washed it.”

 

“Um, what’re you gonna do with that?” asked Ron fearfully.

 

“Nothing, if you don’t want to,” answered George running a soothing hand over Ron’s arm.

 

“The general idea,” said Fred, regarding his hand with pride, “is you put a stocking over the gerbil and poke the little fella up your bum.  You get the pleasure of the scratchy little paws without having to worry about extraction problems or the cruelty to animals bit…since this isn’t an actual gerbil.”  He offered his left index finger to the gerbil and the gerbil grabbed it with its tiny claws.

 

“I don’t get it,” said Ron, shrinking back into George’s arms.

 

George hugged him affectionately.  “Never mind, love,” he said, “it’s probably just an urban myth anyway.  Maybe you’ll like Fred’s next trick better.  Fred?”

 

Fred obligingly tapped his wrist with his wand, turning the gerbil back into a hand.  Then he tapped his wrist again while whispering _Engorgio_.  

 

“Wow,” said Ron, his eyes growing bigger as Fred’s hand inflated.  “That looks like Hagrid’s hand.”  

 

“Okay, that’s a shrinker, Ron,” commented George.  “But watch what Fred can do with his hand.  Ready, Fred?  Right, everybody group hug.”

 

The twins rolled Ron to his back between them.  Then each threw a leg and a hip over Ron, lining all three cocks in his lap.

 

“Now that’s a beautiful sight,” commented Fred.  “Three big hard Weasley willies all in a row.”  He wrapped his huge hand around the cocks and began a light stroking motion.  

 

“Ah, guh,” said Ron, closing his eyes with pleasure.

 

“We start slow, little brother,” said Fred, sighing with pleasure too.  “And work our way to the big finish.”  When Ron didn’t respond with any more than a blissed-out moan, Fred added.  “The big finish, Ron, is when the Three Musketeers all shoot their muskets off at once.”

 

“Unhh, ahhhh, yah,” said Ron.

 

“And now some lube,” coached George.

 

Fred used his wand to lube his hand and continued his gentle up, down.  The cocks bumped and rubbed nicely against one another as the large, hot and slick hand picked up its pace.  

 

With Fred busy with the hand, George turned Ron’s chin toward him.  He put his index finger into Ron’s mouth and whispered, “Suck it.”

 

Ron did as he was told, sucking, licking and thoroughly wetting his brother’s finger.  

 

“Good boy,” said George, pulling his finger out and replacing it with his tongue.

 

Ron was lost in kissing George and with the exquisite feel of Fred’s hand bundling their cocks, when he felt something poke at his anus.  He jumped.

 

“Easy, love,” said George into Ron’s mouth.  “You like this.  You’ll remember in a minute.”  Slowly he pushed his finger into Ron.

 

At first Ron stiffened, but as the finger pushed in further, he relaxed and accepted it.  He didn’t have much choice.  Between the rhythmic up and down of Fred’s hand and the sweet hotness of George’s mouth, he began to understand that his body no longer belonged to him.  It belonged to them and they seemed to know exactly what to do with it.  George’s finger scraped someplace deep inside and Ron gasped as an intense wave of pleasure rolled through his body.  He could hear himself moaning, feel his back arching and the strong sturdy bodies of his brothers on either side of him.  He thrashed as George’s finger scraped over him again and bucked his hips frantically as the tension began to build again behind his balls.

 

“How are you doing?” grunted Fred.

 

“I could go any minute,” panted George.  “You?”

 

“Yah.  Ron?”

 

“Unh, guh.”

 

“He’s ready.”

 

Fred stroked a few more times and then squeezed.  

 

Suddenly, they were all coming together, Ron with his head thrown back and George and Fred sitting up and leaning across Ron to kiss each other.  Ropes and ropes of stringy white ejaculate shot out, bathing Ron’s stomach, the line of bone between his nipples, his neck up to his chin.  

 

“Blimey,” said Ron sighing with relief.  He shuddered as the waves of orgasm passed over him and George eased his finger out of his arse.

 

The twins broke their kiss and looked down at Ron.

 

“Looks like someone threw a bucket of white paint on his chest,” commented Fred.  “Back in the pond?”

 

“I don’t think so,” said George.  “He’s a bit knackered.  A cleaning spell and a nap, I think.”

 

Ron cracked his eyes open.  His voice was sluggish as he said, “Never had anything up my arse, but. bloody hell, that felt good.  Urm, was that it or are we going to fuck?”

 

“Silly boy,” said Fred, tweaking Ron’s nose.  “You always ask and we always say no.  It’s not that we wouldn’t like to, but it just wouldn’t be right.”

 

“Because you’re my brothers?”

 

“Don’t be silly, we fuck each other all the time.  Guess who’s usually the top.”

 

“That’s easy.  George.”

 

“How did he know, George?” asked Fred frowning

.

“It’s just obvious, Fred,” said Ron.  “George is the top.”

 

“I’m George,” said Fred.

 

“No, you’re not,” said Ron.  “Don’t try to pull that crap on me.  You may fool Mum occasionally, but that’s only because she gets distracted.  I would never mix the two of you up.  You’re nothing alike.  But why can’t we fuck?”

 

“Because, silly,” said George, draping himself over Ron and settling himself against his younger brother’s shoulder. “We’re old-fashioned.  We think you should save yourself for the one you really love.  And we think you really love someone else.”

 

“Nope,” said Ron, his eyes wide and serious.  “I only really love you guys.”

 

“And we love you too, Ronniekins,” said Fred, settling himself against Ron’s other shoulder.

 

“Don’t call me that,” said Ron.  He wrapped a long arm around each brother.  “And if you love me how come you never tell me?  You blokes just abuse me.”

 

“We can’t have you getting the big head, can we?” said Fred.

 

“We might say it more often,” added George, “if you weren’t taller than us.  Anyway, we do tell you we love you.  You just always forget.”  

 

“I’ll never forget,” vowed Ron, squeezing his brothers to his sides.  

 

“You will forget,” Fred wheezed.  “Oy, Ron?  Not so tight, right?  You’ll crack our ribs.  And, be careful out there,” he added. “We know what you’re up to, little brother, with Harry and Hermione.”

 

“No you don’t.”  

 

“Sure we do.  You’re going after What’s-His-Name.  We’ll help, you know.  So will Mum, Dad, Bill, Charlie and Ginny too.  We’ll all be looking out for you.  Shit, even Percy, if he ever gets his head out of his arse.  In fact I won’t be surprised if that arsewipe rushed in and took a killing curse for you, baby.”

 

“Don’t call me that,” Ron sounded particularly disgruntled.  “I am of age.”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” said George.  “This is war.  We’re all babes.  Look at the faces of the people who go to war and come back dead.  Children, every one of them.”

 

“I’m not a child,” said Ron, vexed.  “And we’re coming back, all of us.  You, me, Mum, Dad, Charlie, Bill, Ginny and even that twat Percy.  And I’ll get married to Hermione and Harry and we’ll all find lots of ponds to fuck in.”

 

“He’s getting to the rambling part, George,” said Fred.

 

“I am not,” said Ron.  He would have said more but he was suddenly taken by a huge yawn.

 

“And the sleepy part,” said George.

 

Later Ron lay on the blanket sleeping and the twins lay on either side of him.  They had their chins propped on his chest and were talking quietly.  “Shall we send him off with some of hex-deflecting toys?  Hats?  Cloaks?” asked one.

 

“No,” the other murmured.  “I mean, yes…but we better make it look like Muggle clothing.  Let’s knit some magic into some of Mum’s sweaters.”

 

“Good idea.  Those winter caps Mum knits too.  Let’s take the itch out of the wool while we’re at it.”

 

Their voices faded after a while.  Each was silent with his own thoughts.

 

As the surface of the pond took on a red hue from the sinking of the sun, George took Fred’s hand and looked at it.  “When Ron said it looked like Hagrid’s hand, that nearly took the starch out of my parts.”

 

“Do you realize that Hagrid walked in about two minutes after we made the deal?” Fred remarked.  “What if he’d come in earlier?  Do you think he would have wanted in?”

 

“Nah,” said George.  “Hagrid’s far too gentle to force his big bits on Ronnie.  And you know,” he added shrewdly.  “This deal has nothing to do with you or me or Ginny.  The real deal is between Harry and Hermione.  I wonder how it will play out.”

 

“Don’t know,” said Fred.  “But I bet someone’s going to get hurt.  Who do you think it will be?”

 

“I think it’s going to be all three,” said George sounding a little sad.

 

There was another silence then Fred said.  “Hey, George, did you mess with the Ron Happy Juice to make sure there won’t be a tattoo?”

 

“I messed it with all right, brother,” said George grinning.  “I mixed in some essence of Harry.”

 

“What sort of essence?”

 

“The right kind.  I scraped it off his the crotch of his y-fronts, nicked ’em out of the laundry.  What I put in the Happy Juice will show up if Harry has his way with Ron.”

 

“Well, spill it,” said Fred, yawning.  “I’m getting sleepy.  What happens if Harry gets his bit of Ron?”

 

“If Harry gets his cock up Ron’s arse, love,” said George, “There will be a tattoo.  Only it will say, “Dear Harry, we left you the cherry.  Love, George and Fred.”

 

“Brilliant,” said Fred.


	5. Turn Four - Harry and Ron, Run, and Catch Up

_Before we begin, I must interrupt again to tell you that eleven years and a war have come between this scene and the last.  Eleven years, a war and a chemical imbalance on the part of the author who was in the process of changing her meds.  So this story becomes rather like the soldier on patrol who begins a rude joke and then fails to deliver the punch line because of the sudden explosion that tears him in two._

_So forgive the sudden shift and a shifty author who dares to pick up the tiny threads of melancholy running through the first three stories and knit them into a sweater for the fourth._

_As I say, there was a war.  And war changes everything._

 

Harry Potter Apparated back to his house at the end of a long day.  He was sweaty and smelled of horses.  He wanted nothing more than to take a shower, then fall into his bed.  He wasn’t even interested in eating.  That had been happening a lot lately, the disinterest in food.  But he hadn’t really paid it any mind until this morning when he’d been able to slide his jeans up over his narrow hips without undoing the buttons or zip.  

 

He was too tired to eat tonight but he reminded himself to do so in the morning.  No telling when Hagrid might pop by and the big man would go absolutely spare if he noticed Harry losing weight again.  He’d grouse, pinch at Harry’s skinny frame with thick fingers and leave frowning, only to return hours later on Sirius’s motorcycle and with a picnic basket loaded with inedibles.  Grawp, bless him, would send along a tin of his favorite snack, chocolate-covered flobberworms.  Harry sighed.  All in all, it was easier to eat.

 

Harry hung his coat up in the foyer and peeled the black glove from his silver right hand.  He turned to go into his living room.  In the doorway, he stopped cold.  Ron Weasley was sound asleep on his couch.

 

For a moment, Harry could do nothing more than squeeze his eyes shut and try to keep from sinking to his knees right there on the carpet.  He hadn’t seen Ron in seven years…not since he’d stood up for the redhead at his wedding to Hermione.  After the ceremony, Harry had traded Firewhisky shots with Fred and George, finally getting drunk enough to pronounce himself “the world’s most heartbroken Best Man…EVER!”  The way he had bellowed the last word, sending it ringing up into night sky and startling some of the other wedding guests, had alarmed the twins.  Fred had glanced at George and George had nodded.  The two had taken hold of Harry and Apparated him back to their Diagon Alley flat, where they’d helped him through the night by thoroughly fucking him—on the bed, against the wall, in the shower, on the table, under the table, in the air while their three bodies revolved in a knot of tangled limbs, dripping sweat and semen to the floor.  It hadn’t been pretty, after all they had among them six elbows, six knees and a great deal of urgency.  There had been bruises, bloodied lips and one blackened eye, but it had done the job.  

 

Afterwards, the twins had cradled him between them on the bed.  Harry had been limp, parched, sure they’d squeezed every ounce of fluid from his body, even his tears.  Fred had kept muttering that Hermione was a right twat for not keeping her end of the deal.  George, whom Harry liked to believe was the more sensible of the two, had shushed Fred.  He’d said Hermione was all right and Harry shouldn’t give up hope…that it wasn’t over until it was over.

 

Harry hadn’t given up hope exactly.  What he had done was go to Heathrow and buy himself a one-way Muggle ticket to the States.  It had taken years before the transcontinental posts had stopped coming from Ron and Hermione.  He’d never read any of them.

 

And now, seven years later, here was Ron, without so much as a by-your-leave, sleeping on his couch as though he belonged there.

 

Harry took a steadying breath before walking into his living room.  He kept his tread light, not wanting to wake Ron simply because if he did, he thought he might throw the redhead up against the wall and knock his teeth down his throat.  Was that any way to greet an old friend?

 

Could he even call Ron _friend_ anymore?  Harry stood over him, watching him sleep.  It had been years, and truly, his heart had been broken.  He hadn’t known who to be angrier with: Hermione, for keeping Ron, or Ron, for not realizing how much Harry had loved him.  

 

Harry sighed.  Ron was sleeping on his stomach, with his head pillowed on one arm.  His hair fell over his face, just as bright and shaggy as it had always been.  The wide shoulders, the long back, narrow hips and elegant legs were just as Harry remembered.  His old mate wore what appeared to be a Chudley Cannons t-shirt, the back of it was a hideous orange at any rate.  Harry thought he even recognized Ron’s faded jeans and the dirty, magically mended trainers.

 

The arm that wasn’t under Ron’s head trailed off the couch.  Harry followed the line of the freckled arm (noting the brain tentacle scars still visible on the biceps) down to the large square hand which lay open and loose on the floor.  There was a bit of dirt under Ron’s thumbnail and something half hidden by his knuckles—a folded piece of parchment.

 

Harry sat on the floor next to the couch, put one finger on the parchment and gently drew it out.  He had no qualms about reading what ever was written there.  Ron had violated his privacy by turning up uninvited, hadn’t he?  Turnabout, and all that.  Harry opened the parchment to see Hermione’s still familiar scrawl.

 

_Dear Ron,_

_By the time you read this I’ll be gone.  The children are with Ginny, all of them, except Liam, who wanted desperately to go with Charlie to see the new Horntail hatchlings.  There is another one I haven’t yet told you about, sorry, I am currently about fifteen weeks gone.  It’s another boy and yes, it’s yours.  I have not yet been intimate with Tristan, though I fully intend to be.  I’m sorry for leaving while you were out on a job, but I knew if I tried to do something as civil as say goodbye face to face, I’d never be able to go.  You and I have both known for years that things weren’t working, yet we always find reasons to stay together.  Somehow, this last pregnancy is the final straw for me.  Ron, I know what I’m doing is brutal, that it will hurt you terribly, but we simply cannot go on this way.  The only consolation I can give you at the moment is our lovely children, and one other thing.  I’m leaving you an address in America.  I suggest you fly to the United States and find a Floo to take you to this address.  I will tell you there are powerful wards up at this address and not everyone can get through.  If you can get through, Ron, then I believe you will find yourself in the place you were meant to be._

_Yours, H.G._

_P.S. Ginny will keep the children as long as necessary.  I think their noise and bustle is good for her.  I’ll be in touch through her about custody and other horrid things.  P.P.S.  Tell him I still love him._

 

Harry dropped his head into his hands and scrubbed his face.  He ran his hands through his untidy hair, the hair that used to be black as coal, but was now liberally streaked with gray.  Hermione still loved him, did she?  Harry balled the letter angrily in his fist.  Why didn’t she love him enough to leave well enough alone?

 

Harry remembered his first six months in the States.  He’d spent most of it on the floor, keening, tearing his hair and growing skeletally thin.  He’d even run his head into the walls a few times like Dobby, which had made him laugh, then cry all the harder.  He had moments when he supposed he was crazy and moments when he realized he had finally reached his time of mourning.  After all, hadn’t he spent years losing the ones he loved best?  His mother, his father, Sirius, Dumbledore and Ron.  He’d lost his right hand too—that he’d grieved easily enough.  It was only a hand.

 

It was Hedwig who had saved him.  She’d flown in the window one morning after a hunt and laid a dead mouse right in front of his nose as he lay curled and glassy-eyed on the floor.  He’d looked at her in surprise and she’d looked right back with her stern, unblinking eyes.  When he hadn’t moved, Hedwig had picked the mouse up again and this time dropped it over his cheek.  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he had murmured, his voice scraping across his dry throat, “you’re trying to feed me.”

 

That had been a turning point for him.  He’d begun to eat again and bathe again.  And when his closest neighbors had come around, he’d accepted their invitation to tour their farm.  It was there that he’d first noticed the horses, their muscular grace and fluid strength reminding him of something he couldn’t put his finger on.  Something home-like.   He’d been particularly taken by a black colt with a star on his forehead that was almost zigzag.  He’d bought the colt and named it, what else, Firebolt, after the broom he’d lost in the war.  He must have inadvertently mentioned the war for he later discovered his neighbors thought he was a veteran of a Muggle war of which he was only vaguely aware.

 

The years had gone by and Harry had built a fine stable, become a familiar figure in this strange community of horse people with their studding contracts, competitions and races.  And he had found ways of managing most of his sorrows.  His mother, father, Sirius and Dumbledore—the furrows their losses had cut had gradually worn smooth, become places he could visit with as much nostalgia and affection as pain.  His grief for Ron, however, had remained raw and jagged, reopening every time he’d thought it healed.    

 

There was a soft groan from the couch.  Harry got quietly to his knees.  He didn’t know how he felt about Ron—or what he might do to him.  He wouldn’t know until he looked him in the face.

 

There was another groan and a mutter.  Harry knelt by Ron’s head, waiting, hardly daring to breathe.

 

Ron finally snorted and swore, lifting his head from the curve of his arm.  Harry caught sight of his old friend’s eyes before the long red hair fell like a curtain over his face.  One eye was as wide and clear as ever.  The other was marred by a long scar that cut the flesh from forehead to cheekbone.  The iris of that eye was like shattered blue glass.  It had been that way ever since the fifth horcrux, Rowena Ravenclaw’s mirror, had exploded in his face.

 

Ron threw the hair out of his eyes.  His mouth fell open in surprise when he saw Harry.  “’Arry,” was all he said.

 

It was enough.

 

Harry reached up, grabbed Ron by the shoulder and dragged him roughly from the couch.  There was a moment when Ron seemed to think he was being attacked—he pressed with his hands flat against Harry’s chest.  In the next moment, the two had fallen together in a desperate clawing embrace.

 

Harry buried his face in Ron’s neck.  His left hand gathered up a fistful of thick hair.  His right hand clutched the back of the orange shirt.  Even though Harry tried to be careful with the silver hand, he could feel Ron’s shirt tearing like paper.  Ron hung on tight and Harry could feel him trembling.  He was trembling too.

 

“Oy, Ron,” he finally said, lifting his head from his friend’s shoulder.  “Are you all right?”

 

“No,” came the muffled answer.

 

“Neither am I,” said Harry before Apparating them both upstairs to the bedroom.

 

In the morning, Harry awoke to find himself curled on his side with a long warm body practically glued to his back.  He wriggled out of Ron’s arms in time to see his eyes blink open.  For a moment, they simply looked at each other, both of them with eyes red and swollen.  They had tumbled into Harry’s bed, neither one of them able to say a word.  Harry had been very surprised to discover that Ron’s ruined eye wept silvery tears that flashed like mirror shards as they fell.  They had finally slept without letting go.  

 

The silver tears were now scattered across the bedclothes.  Ron watched silently as Harry swept them up and held them in his palm.  They rolled like mercury in his hand.

 

Harry finally spoke.  “Hungry?” he asked, remembering Ron’s ferocious appetite.

 

Ron shook his head.  “You?”  His voice was hoarse.

 

“No,” said Harry.  He turned to put the handful of tears on the bedside table.  “But let’s go downstairs and eat anyway.  You felt a bit scrawny.”

 

“Back at you, mate,” said Ron.  His one good eye went to Harry’s sharp hipbones, visible where the jeans had slipped.

 

“I know,” sighed Harry.  He ran one hand down the bumps of his ribs.  “That’s why we have to eat.  Hagrid looses it when he catches me swimming in my clothes.”

 

Ron nodded.  “Thought he might be here, with you…Grawp, too?”

 

“Yeah,” said Harry.  “They showed up about a year after I left.  Hagrid was a mess, Grawp holding him up.  Hagrid said he couldn’t stay at Hogwarts with Dumbledore gone.  Maybe if Olympe had survived…”  He shook his head.  

 

Ron, moved or suddenly shy, looked down.

 

They got up, took turns in the bathroom, then walked downstairs together.  To Harry, it seemed that they were being very careful with the air between them.  Each took care not to brush the other, as though afraid that even the lightest touch might snag on something already bruised or broken.  On the last stair, Harry’s left hand grazed Ron’s.  Ron caught it and held it gently.  “Harry,” he asked.  “Where are we?”

 

“My house, in West Virginia.”  

 

“West Virginia?”

 

“Yeah.  It’s in the eastern United States.  A lot of it is fairly rural.”  They walked into Harry’s big kitchen.  “This house was once an old farm house.”

 

Ron looked around the kitchen, taking in the Muggle appliances: oven, refrigerator, coffee maker, potbelly stove, wooden table and the old-ladyish print curtains that hung over the large windows.  Still holding Harry’s hand, he leaned in closer.  “What do you smell like?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.  “I’ve been smelling something all night.  Not anything bad, but something that’s definitely not you.”

 

“Horses, probably,” said Harry, thinking Ron didn’t smell like himself either, but rather like Floo powder and the staleness of Muggle airplanes.  He took his friend to the window and showed him his spread of land with its paddock where his horses grazed.  “There isn’t much Quidditch out here,” he said, “so I play polo now.”

 

“What’s polo?”

 

“It’s like Quidditch, except you play it on horses instead of broomsticks and anyone can can go for the Quaffle, which, erm, rolls about on the ground.”

 

“Mental,” said Ron, shaking his head.  He touched the fingers of one hand to the window pane.  His other hand still held Harry’s.  “Did you buy this place after you left?” he asked.

 

“Didn’t have to,” said Harry.  “It belonged to the Blacks.  When I got here, I could see that it hadn’t been lived in for some time, yet there were tins of Muggle food and bottled water stacked everywhere.  I can only assume that someone, Sirius or Regulus, had prepared it as a hideaway but never got to use it.”

 

“Crikey,” Ron muttered.  He continued to look out of the window for a while.  “Hagrid somewhere nearby?” he finally asked.  

 

Harry shook his head.  “He and Grawp live in the mountains,” he said.  “In a really nice cave.  It’s perfect for them.  A forest for Hagrid, caves for Grawp.”

 

“Fang too?”   

 

“Fang died a while back,” Harry said.  “But Hagrid does have his creatures,” he added with a smile.  “Magical creatures, when they’re wounded or sick, seem to find him and he takes care of them.”

 

“Did he finally get his dragon?” Ron turned to look at Harry.

 

“They don’t have dragons over here,” said Harry.  “Nothing like that.  Nothing like the creatures we have over on our side.  No dragons, nothing like a hippogriff or a sphinx.”

 

“No?  What do they get over here?”  Ron watched his thumb moving gently on the back of Harry’s hand.

 

“Strange things,” said Harry shaking his head.  “Things we never would have dreamed of.  “Bogeymen, Wendigos, Chupacabra, Thunderbirds, Graveyard Dogs, Alligator and Lizard People.”

 

“And what the bloody hell are those?” asked Ron, looking bemused.

 

“Things you’d have to see to believe,” said Harry laughing.  “I can’t keep them straight.  Hagrid tells me to keep my mouth shut and that the next time I call the Wendigo a Chupacabra, it’s probably going to eat me.  He says the North American monsters are a cranky lot.  So many have been forced out of their habitats and driven near to extinction.  They have pretty poor opinions of humans.”

 

“What about Dementors?” asked Ron, shuddering.  “England was lousy with them for a while there.”

 

“No,” murmured Harry.  “Nothing like Dementors over here.”  He turned his hand over to capture Ron’s, folding the big freckled hand into his own callused one.  After a moment, he went on. “I’d say the most recognizable of Hagrid’s lot is a creature like a Tibetan Yeti.  It’s called a Bigfoot or a Sasquatch or a Skunk Ape.  Hagrid has had one living with him for more than a year now.”

 

Having had enough of magical creatures, Ron turned from the window.  He reached for Harry’s silver hand, holding it up and turning it from side to side, looking for the seam.  “Do you still get the phantom pain?” he asked.  Harry had lost his hand in what was now referred to as The Final Battle.  Even with his horcruxes destroyed, Tom Riddle had been powerfully resistant to death.  When Harry had finally cast his killing curse, he’d had to hold it through the night until sunrise, then through sunset and sunrise again before the dark wizard had finally succumbed.  While he was recovering in the remains of St. Mungo’s, Harry’s friends had watched his wand hand blacken and die.  It had turned to ash that crumbled at the touch.

 

“No,” said Harry, using his free hand to brush the hair from Ron’s face.  “The pain disappeared years ago.  Did Ginny ever try this type of prosthesis?”  He laid his hand gently against Ron’s cheek.

 

“She tried several like that,” Ron said, putting his own hand over Harry’s.  “But she said they creeped her out.  She said it was like they could think for themselves…you know how she feels about that.  She collects wooden peg-leggy things like Moody used to wear and carves rude words in them.” Ron sighed.  “Gin gets more in your face every day…because, you know,” he shrugged, “it just never goes away.  Yeah, maybe time has passed, but it’s still there.  Know what I mean?”

 

Harry nodded.

 

“Anyway, Ginny,” said Ron.  “She shaved her hair into a Mohawk, dyed what was left dead black.  She has some really wicked looked piercings in her eyebrows, nose and lips and “Fuck you, Death Eater” tattoos on both shoulders.  She’s really angry…about what happened to her…and Mum, Dad and the twins.  But I have to say that marriage to Dean has helped.  Dean’s good with her…Ginny says he’s gentle.”

 

Harry felt a fresh wave of pain.  It had taken two years for word of the twins’ deaths to reach him.  He’d considered writing Ron then, but his feelings had been tangled like fishhooks and there had been no way to sort them out.

 

“Harry.”  Ron was smiling crookedly.  It was the saddest smile Harry had ever seen.  “What ever else we do here, let’s not talk about Fred and George, right?  Maybe one day…I know it’s been five years and all, but,” he gestured helplessly, “I just can’t…”

 

Harry nodded.  He squeezed Ron’s hand before letting go and turning to the refrigerator.  He didn’t have much food on hand but fortunately one of his polo mates had brought over milk, bread and strawberries.  He broke six eggs, scrambled them, put bread in the toaster and sliced the strawberries.  Ron hung at his elbow, watching fascinated, as though Harry were doing some kind of alien magic.  

 

“I’ve gotten used to doing things in the Muggle way,” Harry explained.  “The people I play polo with are Muggles and I never know when someone’s going to pop around.”  

 

He set the plates on the table and the friends ate in silence.  When they were finished, Harry looked across the table at Ron and said, “I read your letter…the one Hermione wrote you.”

 

“Good,” said Ron.  “That’ll save me some explanation.”  He pushed his plate away and rested his head on one fist as he looked at Harry.  Harry thought he looked dead knackered.

 

“Who’s Tristan?”

 

“Tristan Cheek.  Bloke Hermione works with…at the Elf Liberation Front…every bit as smart as she is...when they talk, I don’t even understand them.”  Ron pushed his hair away from his face and scrubbed at his good eye.  “Funny thing, Harry, Tristan’s a Squib…lives like a Muggle.  Hermione says he’s like her, comfortable in both worlds.  Guess he’s the one she was meant to be with…”

 

“Ron,” Harry started, “I’m sorry—“

 

“Don’t be,” Ron cut him off.  “You’ve read the letter…every word was true, we were killing each other, horrible words…you know how Hermione and I could snipe, Harry.  It couldn’t have been good for the kids to hear.”  He made a wry face.  “Man, Harry, I can’t believe I’m gonna have another kid, I’m still getting used to that bit of news.”  He laughed, his face opening a little.  “You wouldn’t believe what lunatics the other four are, Harry.  Love ’em to bits, but, blimey, they don’t give you a moment’s peace…always making demands, scaring your pants off.  You feel like they’re gonna kill themselves any minute.  Never understood my mum, til I had my own lot.”   Ron paused, shifting his gaze to the table top.  “That’s one of the things that killed us, Harry,” he said softly.  “Me and Hermione.  All the pregnancies.  Hermione loves the kids, but she’s not like Mum, wanting nothing but a pack of redheaded brats.  Hermione’s heart has always been with her work.”  He shook his head ruefully.  “We tried every sort of birth control known to wizard and Muggle, but I swear I couldn’t touch her without getting her preggers.  Curse of the Weasleys, I guess.  After a while, she started to hate me for it…”

 

Harry reached his hand across the table for Ron’s.  “Tell me their names,” he said.  

 

Ron laughed, curling his fingers up with Harry’s.  “There’s Liam, then Rubeus and Gabe—number four is Harry James…”  At Harry’s surprised look, he said, “Hermione and I figured if we couldn’t have the original any more, we’d have our own Harry.”  Ron suddenly squeezed Harry’s wrist hard.  “I swear, Harry,” he said, choking up.  “When we had our first…”  Ron closed his eyes and a few of the sparkling silver tears fell from under his lid.  He tried again. “When we had our first, Liam…he came out so tiny and helpless…and he had to trust us to care for him and comfort him.  Oh, Harry,” Ron squeezed his wrist harder, “we cried, Hermione and I, thinking about what it must have been like for you, being an unloved child.”

 

Harry reached for Ron with both hands.  He held Ron’s left hand gently in the silver hand, let his real hand squeeze Ron’s right.  “Don’t, Ron,” he said, gently.  Remember I was loved.  My mum gave her life to protect me…how do you get more loved than that?  I think I always carried a bit of that in me.  Got me through the years that followed.”

 

Ron pulled his hands away from Harry’s.  He pushed the tears around on the table top and lined them up in a row.  “Even when Liam was three,” he said, “he’d hold up his arms to me, wanting to be picked up.  He’d look like such a baby and I’d think of you, the first few times you might have held up your arms like that to your fucking crazy relatives.”  He pressed down on one of the tears, snapping it in half.

 

“Don’t,” said Harry, stopping Ron’s hand with his own.  “I like them.”  He swept the remaining tears across the table toward him.  In the brighter light of the kitchen, he could see that they were not only silvery but slivered through with many colors, like prisms.

 

Ron stretched, opening his long arms wide and leaning back, balancing his chair on its back legs.  “Number five,” said he, wonderingly to Harry’s ceiling. “If I get my way, he’ll be called after Neville, since he was the one who managed to get Ginny to a healer before she bled to death.”  

 

Harry nodded, playing with the tears, making of circle of them on the worn wood of his table.  After the massacre at the Three Broomsticks, all they could find of Ginny was one of the dragon hide boots Charlie had given her.  Ron had been sick when he’d picked the boot up and discovered it wasn’t exactly empty.  It had been three terrible days before they tracked Ginny down in a hospital tent in the ruins of Diagon Alley.

 

Ron let his chair fall back down.  “What I don’t get, Harry,” he said, “is how Hermione got this address…and how she knew there’d be wards.  You’ve been out of touch for years.  Unless,” his head came up, “you’ve been in touch with Hermione?”

 

Harry shook his head.  “No, I haven’t been.  I suspect Hermione’s in touch with Hagrid…and the meddling git gave her this address.”

 

“Oh,” said Ron, his eyes down cast.  “Are you very angry?”

 

Harry shook his head.  _Ron, you idiot_.  “Not at all,” he said.  “Quite the opposite.”  He pulled Ron to his feet.  “Come on, let’s go back upstairs.”

 

Ron nodded.  Leaving the dishes on the table, the two of them started for the stairs, still holding hands like children afraid of the dark.  Then suddenly unable to wait any more, Harry stopped on the stairs and pulled Ron up short.  When Ron turned to face him, his blind eye glittered.  Harry could tell he already knew.  He moved in slowly so Ron could stop him if he wanted.  He lifted his friend’s chin gently and tucked some of the falling hair behind an ear.  He angled his own head to the side, closed the distance between them, and then Harry Potter kissed the man he loved for a very long time.  

 

Ron’s lips were softer than the lips of any girl Harry had ever kissed.Soft and warm and Harry could almost taste the blood under the under the fragile skin.  He moved in with more insistence.  Ron’s back hit the wall of the narrow staircase and Harry fit the front of his body against the redhead’s.  Ron’s mouth was opening under his, his tongue was sliding against Harry’s.  _He’s here_ , thought Harry.  _It’s real and I’m not_ _dreaming._   _He’s here finally and finally I’m kissing him._   He searched his heart for the anger he’d felt for so long, but, at the moment, his heart was too full for anger.

 

Harry didn’t realize he was squeezing Ron’s shoulder until the redhead at last broke the kiss.  “I wouldn’t have stopped, Harry,” he said with the first genuine smile Harry had had from him since he’d found him on his couch, “but you’re shredding my shirt and about to snap my collarbone, okay?  Ron pulled at his t-shirt; it looked like it had lost a fight with a Muggle washing machine.  Then Harry saw the livid marks his silver hand had made on Ron’s shoulder.

 

“Oh Jesus, Ron,” he said, horrified.  “I’m sorry.  The hand, I haven’t lost control of it in years.  Well, erm, I don’t do this much, you know.”

 

Ron snorted.  “I guess I last did it fifteen weeks ago…but I’ve never done it with a bloke.”

 

“You haven’t?” Harry quirked an eyebrow.

 

“No, never.” 

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“I think I’d know, wouldn’t I?” said Ron, looking at Harry like he was crazy.  “I do dream about it sometimes,” he admitted, a strange expression crossing his face.  “Weird dreams.  The best ones are with you…but I used to have them about Fred and George too, for crying out loud.  Those stopped though,” Ron shook his head sadly, “after they died.”  

 

Harry placed his silver hand on the wall next to Ron’s head and wrapped his left arm around the redhead’s waist.  He thought about the silly little bargain he’d made with his friends so long ago, when they were kids and didn’t know any better.  _So no one ever told Ron about the deal?_ he thought. _Well it hardly matters now._  He leaned in and kissed Ron deeply, holding him tightly and feeling the long arms wind about him.  “I think we should get rid of this shirt,” he said huskily, when they’d broken off again.  “I’m afraid there’s not much left of it.”

 

“I’ll take off my shirt if you take off yours,” said Ron, shyly.  He flushed, seeming more like a boy than a man with five kids.

 

“Deal,” said Harry.  He started to pull off his Henley and managed to rip a big hole in it with his right hand.

 

Ron laughed.  “You’ve got to get that thing under control, mate, especially, if you’re planning on touching me with it.”

 

Harry laughed too, chagrinned.  “I guess I’m a little nervous,” he admitted.

 

Ron laughed again.  He leaned forward and kissed Harry quickly.  With a great whoop, he bolted up the stairs, tearing away what was left of his Cannons shirt as he went.  When Harry caught up with him, he was bouncing on the bed, peeling off his dirty socks.  He looked up at Harry mischievously.  “Bloody hell, Harry, when did your hair go so gray?  You’re only twenty-eight.”

 

Harry ran his hand through his hair and glanced at himself in his dresser mirror.  “I earned every one of these gray hairs,” he said.  “What I want to know is why you _aren’t_ gray.”

 

“Weasleys don’t gray,” said Ron.  “We go to our graves with flaming red heads…but,” suddenly he sobered again, “I guess you’ve been to enough Weasley funerals to know that…”

 

“Ron, I’m sorry,” said Harry.  He sat down on the bed next to Ron and took off his own socks.  

 

“Yeah,” said Ron.  “Me too.  He fell backwards on the bed and tugged Harry after him.  “I do have my own stuff,” he said quietly.  “Not gray hair, maybe, but nightmares and flashbacks.  Hermione gets it too, calls it Post Traumatic Shock…Ginny’s worse than either of us…do you get stuff?

 

Harry curled a loop of Ron’s hair on his finger and nodded.  “I get nightmares.  Funny thing, though, whenever I have a really bad one, I always find Hagrid waking me up.  He’s keyed into me somehow.  He’ll be there, his big mug right in mine, a sad look on his face.  It’d be scary if it weren’t Hagrid.  He’ll stay until I go back to sleep.”

 

Harry rolled to his side and propped his head up on his right hand.  He placed his left hand on Ron’s bare stomach and stroked upward.  He drew a lazy finger around each nipple, watching them stiffen into peaks.  Ron’s breathing went shallow and Harry saw him tilt his pelvis.  Harry’s own cock was hard and pushing against his jeans, but his heart was suddenly unsure.  It shrank in his chest until it felt like the flame on a match head, ready to go out at any minute.  He sighed.  _It’ll take more than a night of_ _weeping and a snog on the stairs to fix me and Ron_.  _Not that I’m letting him go, mind.  Ever._

 

He reached up and traced the scar on Ron’s face.  “The eye,” he asked.  “Does it see anything?”

 

Ron shook his head.  “Not anymore, not even light or dark.  Kept me out of the Aurors, when I finally applied.  I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a hex.  But that’s okay.  I work with Bill now.”

 

“Are you at Gringotts?”  Harry asked surprised.   He let his hand fall from Ron’s face and sat up cross-legged on the bed.

 

“Naw, Bill quit the bank.  We’re consultants, believe it or not.  We free-lance, like bounty-hunters.  Sometimes the Aurors come to us when they need to nail a particularly nasty Dark Wizard.  Bill’s brilliant at finding Dark Wizards, Harry.  He’s got some kind of crazy intuition and he swears he can smell ’em.”  Ron paused and stared up at the ceiling.  He put his arms behind his head.  “Bill’s face, Harry,” he finally said, “it never did get any better…unless you like patchwork.  When the two of us go out, what we look like, I don’t know…”

 

“I imagine you look like veterans,” said Harry.

 

“Yeah, veterans,” said Ron after a moment.  “Thanks for that.  I don’t suppose you have to work, do you?”

 

“No, but I do,” said Harry.  “You know I was telling you about the polo?”  Ron nodded.  “I play with a team that works with kids.  Kids who haven’t had it easy.”

 

“Are there Dark Wizards here, too?”

 

“The kids I work with are Muggle.  There’s a big city near here called D.C.  The people I play polo with, we go into town a couple of times a week, teach the kids about horses.  I know it sounds weird, but it gives these kids—they call ’em ‘at risk’ over here—something to do, an idea that there’s something out there besides some of the hard stuff they see where they live.”  Harry could see in Ron’s face that he didn’t quite understand, but at the moment, he wasn’t in the mood to explain street kids to his friend.  “Some of these kids go on to do all right,” he added.  “Go back to school and stuff.”

 

Ron nodded.  He had gotten the gist.  “That’s good, Harry,” he said, nodding approvingly.  “Really decent.”  He raised up on his elbows and kicked his legs which hung over the side of the bed.   “Do you still fly?” he asked.

 

“Of course,” said Harry.  “Keeps me sane.  What about you?”

 

Ron shrugged.  “Sometimes.  I have to have someone with me.  To tell me when to pull up.”  He gestured at his damaged eye.  “No depth perception.  Can’t tell when I’m going to hit the ground.”

 

“Ah,” said Harry.  “I can help you with that.”  He scooted back on the bed to lean against the headboard.  “So, Ron,” he said.  “Are we caught up now?”  

 

Ron nodded, studying the bare foot he’d propped up on one knee.

 

“Are you up for this?”  Harry wasn’t entirely sure he was himself.  While part of him was more than ready to leap on Ron, another part of him wanted to delay the moment forever.

 

But Ron nodded again.

 

“Want to go to the bathroom?”

 

Ron shook his head.

 

“Don’t want to freshen up?”

 

Ron looked up, alarmed.  “Do I need to?  Do I stink?”

 

Harry laughed.  “No, idiot, I wouldn’t care if you did.  I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”

 

Ron laughed too, but uneasily.  “Harry, I’m anything but comfortable,” he said.  “But I know what I want.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Ron nodded again, this time locking his eye with Harry’s.  “Tell me what to do.”

 

“Tell me what you want.”

 

Ron was quiet for a moment.  “I just want to—” he shrugged, embarrassed.  “You know, get as close to you as I can.”

 

Harry closed his eyes.  _Perfect,_ he thought, taking a deep breath.  Suddenly his heart didn’t feel so fluttery anymore.  Nor small.  In fact it felt uncomfortably large, and not a little bit battered.  _But perhaps_ , he thought, _unlike my hand, Ron’s eye, Bill’s face or Ginny’s leg, it will heal **.**_

 

He motioned to Ron and Ron came, fitting himself into Harry’s side.  He tucked his red head beneath Harry’s chin and wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist.  Harry held him and rubbed his back, gently stroking the lovely ridges of spine he’d admired so long ago.

 

Ron’s breathing, shallow at first, gradually evened out and Harry felt his friend’s body relax.  “It is true, Harry,” he asked, “what Hermione said?  That there are powerful wards on the Floo and not just anyone can pass?

 

Harry tightened his arms around Ron.  “It’s true, mate.  It’s keyed to let in me, Hagrid, Grawp—and you.  Anyone else would have bounced right off.”

 

“So,” Ron said, “does that mean Hermione’s right?  That I finally am where I’m supposed to be?”

 

Harry rubbed his chin over the top of Ron’s head.  “I told myself a thousand times to take down your signature, but I never did.  Guess I never gave up on you.”

 

Ron sighed and nestled closer to Harry.  Harry could feel his friend’s ribs move as he breathed and each breath sent a puff of air across his bare chest, raising gooseflesh on his arms.  

 

Finally Ron said, “Are you going to kiss me again, like you did on the stairs?” 

 

“Yah,” said Harry.  “In a minute.”  He rested his cheek against Ron’s head.  He saw the fiery color of Ron’s hair in the corner of his eye and beyond the red, he saw see the two of them, what they might be together.  Here on the farm with the horses and Ron’s kids, Hermione and Tristan in the guest house for long visits.  Harry knew that he, Ron and Hermione had loads of stuff to work out, years of hurt to forgive.  But Hermione was necessary, wasn’t she?.  With Hagrid and Ron now in place, there was an empty spot only she could fill.  Maybe Ginny could come too.  Harry would stick her with his troubled Muggle kids.  They’d understand her piercings and tattoos and if she couldn’t heal herself, maybe she could help someone else.

 

Then there would be times, Harry thought, when the kids were with Hermione and Tristan, or off in England or Romania visiting relatives and he and Ron would be alone.  They’d take their brooms up late at night and fly in the bright bitter cold of the sky.  He, with his Seeker’s eyes, would see everything while Ron, with his blind eye, would see nothing but smears of light from the towns below.  Ron would have to trust him then, to keep him in the air, to talk him through the spinning vertigo that comes from flying blind.  He’d take Ron on Firebolt’s back too and show him that even Muggle horses could fly.  The rocking rhythm like flying over rough air and the still sudden patches that made it seem that time and the whole world had paused.

 

“Harry?”  

 

Ron’s voice tugged at him but he wasn’t quite ready to come back.  There were no guarantees, he knew that by now, that they’d even make it through a second night.

 

“In a moment,” he murmured, thinking of how he’d collect those silvery tears of Ron’s.  He’d make a mosaic of them for the kitchen window.  It would hang and turn in the morning sun, throwing its colored light while they had their tea and toast.  “Just a moment, love,” he whispered.  “I’ve waited too long to rush this.”

_I hope you will forgive me, if I, take you by the elbow and lift you out of the scene, as though you were leaving a Pensieve and a memory in progress.  Perhaps you’ll agree that after so many years, Harry and Ron deserve a moment of privacy._

_I will tell you, however, that Harry and Ron did make it through a second night, and another, and another and on.  And also that it took nearly three weeks for Ron’s tattoo to fade completely.  He swore violently every time he caught sight of his backside in Harry’s mirror, but Harry didn’t really think Ron minded.  Wasn’t it just like Fred and George to have the last laugh, even after death._

_And now, while it’s no replacement for the slick and arching backs, for the slide of one long leg against another and muffled lovers’ cries, may I offer you a glimpse of Hagrid’s world?  We might as well go by Pensieve again, for I have been there and have for you a personal memory._

_You’ll notice that we are being set down in a foggy wood, thick with trees, most of them spruce.  We are deep in the rugged Allegheny Mountains, somewhere near Spruce Knob, the highest point in West Virginia.  The forest here is similar to a Canadian boreal forest so it makes a comfortable home for the forlorn, thick-furred creatures that make their way to Hagrid.  The winds are so strong here near the top of the Knob, that the spruce have limbs on one side only, hence the Knob’s rather awkward nickname, the Land of the Whispering One-Sided Spruce.  We are in National Park territory and while there may be the occasional hardcore backpacker about, we have no fear of discovery.  Hagrid’s home is well protected by Muggle-repelling charms—thanks to Harry’s clever wand, and yes, he did learn to use his left hand as deftly as his right.  A passerby would see a sheer cliff wall; a climber would find this wall impossible to climb as any purchase he or she reached for would crumble in his or her hand.  But, we, as you can see are able to pass through this mountain wall as easily as the Hogwarts students pass through the barrier at Kings Cross to reach platform nine and three quarters._

_The Allegheny Mountains are home to many caves and underground rivers.  Further down the path you’ll see the place where one of the underground rivers rises to surface and form an odd, rolling pool.  This is where Hagrid, Grawp and their companions collect their water.  And here is the cave in which Hagrid, Grawp, the Yeti-like creature and the Sheep-Child live.  (Have I neglected to mention the Sheep-Child?  There is no time for explanations now, but I suggest you seek out a poem called The Sheep-Child by James Dickey.  It begins, “Farm boys wild to couple…” ****_

_As you enter Hagrid’s cave, you will notice on the inside it looks a lot like the old hut back at Hogwarts.  There is a large single room, with a hardwood floor and a high vaulted ceiling from which hang cross-bows, picks, shovels, axes, as well as deer and boar and wild fowl carcasses.  The same copper kettle boils on an open fire, a large wooden table sits in the center of the room.  You’ll notice Hagrid’s tattered and annotated volume of **W. H.** **Blackman’s Field Guide to North American Monsters** open on the table.  To the left is a large alcove in which sit two massive beds with patchwork quilts, though to be honest, one is often unused, for Grawp, when he has bad dreams about the war or about living with giants, climbs in bed with his older brother._

_Hagrid and his companions are not at home at the moment so let’s wander outside where you will see Hagrid’s fabulous_ Mimbulus mimbletonia _nursery, which would have delighted Neville had he survived the war.  See, how in six short years, the cactus-like plants have grown.  That they are so large and healthy is a testament to Hagrid’s skills as a gardener.   A mature Mimble, with its sizable protuberances and flowery yellow female boils, looks a bit like a many-armed saguaro cactus in bloom.  You’ll see the plants that are in heat leaning toward each other, inserting protuberances into flower boils.  Some of the protuberants rub against each other and some of the flowers touch lip to lip.  Do not be surprised by the sudden showers of ejaculate.  This is a memory so you will not be hit by the ejaculate, which is your loss, I’m afraid.  The male secretions of a Mimble are sought after by the very rich in the wizarding world.  They are said to be very good for the complexion, remarkable for preserving a youthful appearance.  The dew that drops from the flower boils taste of the sweetest nectar; it is a favorite treat of the Sheep-Child._

_We won’t stay long, just long enough to watch Hagrid, Grawp, the Yeti (he is called that because Hagrid finds the name Bigfoot offensive and has written Blackman to tell him so), and the Sheep-Child return to the mouth of the cave.  The dusk gathers as Hagrid builds a fire and takes out a flute-like instrument he made from the trunk of a fallen spruce.  He plays the flute, soothing Fluffy who has retired with him to these mountains.  And he drinks his home-made mead from a stout wooden stein.  If you are lucky enough to one day taste Hagrid’s mead, you will no doubt detect the Mimble nectar that makes it so mellow.  Hagrid could cask and sell his mead, but there is no need, his_ Mimbulus mimbletonia _nursery has already brought him that which he never sought:  a Gringotts vault full of gold._

_As the sun sets, Grawp grooms the Yeti’s coat with a Yeti currying brush.  He makes long strokes down the Yeti’s back and the Yeti closes its eyes with pleasure.  The Sheep-Child plays as children will, leaping about either two or four-leggedly and tonight it falls asleep at Hagrid’s feet with its human hands curled up by its lamb’s face._

_As the sun finally leaves the sky, the spectral form of Fang comes gliding out of the forest, its running feet never touching the ground.  Though Hagrid buried Fang several years ago near the summit of Spruce Knob, an imprint of the dog has remained behind.  It is Harry’s belief that the ghost dog will not leave this plane until he can go with Hagrid, as some souls are not meant to be parted.  With the last light, Hagrid scoops up the sleeping Sheep-Child with one hand, while the other hand pets the cold air where Fang’s head floats._

_This memory is ending; in a moment you will leave the Pensieve and go on your way.  You’ll kick off on your broom and maybe you’ll take with you some memory of peace—the glow of Hagrid’s fire or the sound of wind in the spruce.  If you do, remember that peace is fragile, and crackles like winter leaves.  For if you were able to fly high enough to see the Earth as a blue ball that would fit in the palm of your hand, you would see what all children of war already know.  That war never ends, it simply moves from place to place, and always leaves it embers behind._

_We are rising out of the Pensieve now.  Take your last look at Hagrid as he walks into the cave with Fang and the Sheep-Child.  Grawp and the Yeti follow, holding hands in a brotherly fashion.  There is a sudden flare inside the cave as Hagrid feeds his heart fire, while the fire outside gutters and sparks before fading out as gently as a gas lamp._


End file.
